


No Exit

by beltainefaerie



Series: No Exit [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Blackmail, Blood Play, Coercion, Death Threats, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Knife Play, Mental Coercion, Multi, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Public Sex, Series 3 compliant, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, Threats, unresolved Johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:04:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1302559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock could hardly say how his life had spiraled so far out of control. All he knew was that there didn’t seem to be any exit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This piece might be extra special triggery to some people. The major relationship lies somewhere between kidnapping, acquaintance rape, and coercion, with elements of domestic abuse and Stockholm Syndrome thrown in, (for while he isn’t physically captive, Sherlock is trapped by the nature of their relationship). Sherlock actively participates, asks for some of what goes on, though under drugs and coercion he can’t properly consent. By the time he is sober, there is still the coercion to contend with. His own thoughts on the matter are confused and he feels complicit, since Sherlock is somewhat sapiosexual and felt drawn to Moriarty from the start. It is more raw and very different from how he feels for John, but at this point, Sherlock believes that he can’t ever have John. Overall, Sherlock is now rather broken and his feelings are muddled. If any of that will upset you, please back out now.
> 
> The BDSM in this fic is predominantly done badly. There are things that aren’t safe, many things that aren’t sane and, outside of a dream sequence, none of it is really consensual. In summary, BDSM is not bad, but Moriarty is. I know how to do BDSM well, but these characters don’t care to. I write a lot of BDSM with proper setup and safewords and aftercare, but this won’t be it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who looked this piece over or talked it through with me. To those movie night friends that could stomach this one. To Diann for her help in the early stages. 
> 
> Most of all a huge thank you to Shelly (Shellysbees), who was a constant beta reader, cheerleader and dear, dear friend, without whom this piece would not have happened.
> 
> Also, thanks to Ariane DeVere, whose Sherlock transcripts have been invaluable. http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/
> 
> This piece is designed to begin after Sherlock leaves the wedding in The Sign of Three and continue through His Last Vow. By canon compliant/ series 3 spoilers, I mean that I did my best to work this story around what actually happened in series 3, showing scenes that could have occurred. 
> 
> I know there is fandom discussion regarding the timeline, as there seems to be disagreement between the show and John’s blog. For the purposes of this fic, I based the timeline on the wedding invitations, which state Saturday, May 18th. In 2013, May 18 was a Saturday so I let everything else fall in place from there. Just go with it.

Sherlock lay on a cot. In his ratty clothes and windbreaker he might well have been part of his ubiquitous homeless network. He swatted at his arm. In his dream, he was at his great grandfather’s cottage in Sussex, watching him tend the bees. One of the bees had stung him. They never did that. Not when he was actually there at six years old, and not any time he had dreamt about them since. That seemed important, but why?

“Rise and shine” That voice simply couldn’t be. Another dream? Blinking up, bleary eyed in the filthy upper room where he got his fix, Sherlock shrank back.

“You can’t be here. You’re dead.” Sherlock slurred as the face in front of him swam into focus. Jim looked radiant, haloed in light seeping in from the broken window, his pristine dove grey suit and cream tie, completely out of place here. 

“So are you and look at us both,” He smiled as though they were sharing some secret joke, but in Sherlock’s haze, any particular meaning other than the obvious was utterly lost on him. His brow furrowed as he tried to remember, but gave up after a moment as Moriarty hauled him to his feet.

“We’re going home.”

“Home?” Sherlock repeated, shaking his head as if to clear it. 

_His home? My home? Where is John?_

“Once I knew you were here, I couldn’t just leave you like this. And I am glad I didn’t. You look so sad. Where is that doctor of yours? Surely he doesn’t approve of-” he gestured widely at the room, “all this.” 

When Sherlock made no answer, Moriarty ran the back of his hand down Sherlock’s face. The gesture was tender, but it made him shudder. “Oh, yes. I remember now. He left you. They do, don’t they. Ordinary people with their ordinary lives?”

Moriarty smiled, genuine and beautiful and terrifying. Nothing good could possibly come of this. What was he doing here? _I must be hallucinating._ That thought shouldn’t be comforting. Not at all. But it would be better. His heart was racing and he wondered briefly if he had taken something wrong. He was always so careful. So, that wasn’t it. Couldn’t be. But he didn’t feel right.

He should run, he should get away, but he couldn’t. Sherlock let himself be led out to the car. 

_Something, something is very wrong._

But he couldn’t focus, his thoughts felt muddy. He tried to stay alert, but couldn’t help that his eyes drifted closed as they drove.

As they pulled onto Baker Street, Moriarty pulled a hoodie on over his perfect suit, hiding his face. Who cared what they saw in a crack den, apparently, but here, there certainly might be someone to recognise him, or captured by the ever-present CCTV. They exited the car and it drove away as they made their way up to 221B.

Once they were inside, Moriarty tossed the sweatshirt aside as the door clicked shut behind them. Sherlock collapsed into his chair, looking lost.

Moriarty withdrew the phone from his pocket, fingers moving rapidly over the screen until the sound of a violin began to play. A waltz. Not just any waltz. This one existed only on Sherlock’s computer, unless someone had recorded it at the wedding. Last night? Two nights ago? Judging by the sound quality and background noise that was exactly where it was from. But who...

“You and I are going to dance, Sherlock,” he said, arms held in graceful arches, waiting expectantly.

 _Literally?_ Sherlock looked up at him. He stopped puzzling over where Moriarty had gotten the recording and found himself stepping into his embrace. He didn’t know what compelled him to, but he felt his body go before his mind could process. 

“I am sure you won’t mind if I lead,” Jim crooned into his ear.

The dancing was perfect. Smooth and beautiful, even high as he was. Glorious, even as he began to feel the cold frisson of fear. Far too elaborate for a dream or hallucination. He was back. He was here. And Sherlock was in no shape to deal with him. It was all too surreal. 

“We weren’t done, were we, Sherlock? I know I never finished,” he said, the innuendo not even subtle. 

He went on, his voice all the more terrifying for its lilting tone. “You loved having him in your arms like this, didn’t you. Sweet. Pliable. But you are so _noble_ these days, aren’t you? I bet you never even tasted him.” His contempt was palpable as he bent Sherlock down, pulling him into a kiss. His lips were soft and he tasted sweet. It took a moment to place. He tasted like chewing gum. 

Perhaps the kiss was meant to unnerve him. _Did it? Not as much as it should._ He wished he could believe it was a strangely vivid dream. But if loneliness was going to swallow him whole, this was almost a comfort. So he let himself be kissed, and if he wasn’t exactly returning the kiss, he wasn’t resisting.

It felt wrong and _notJohn_ his brain so very helpfully supplied, but of course, Moriarty was right. How would he know? He could deduce, but he never would quite know, would he?

He made no move to stop him as Moriarty slid hands up his chest, under his jacket and slipped it from his shoulders. He didn’t even halt in the dance.

“You should have taken him when you had the chance you know. By now, it is far too late. He married, moved out, and moved on didn’t he. When was the last time you really saw him? Just him? Must have been ages ago. It feels like it at any rate, doesn’t it?” His tone was sweet and pleasant even as he taunted.

As the song ended, Moriarty bent him into a graceful dip. Instead of pulling him back up, he let him drop onto the couch, the last note still lingering in the air as his fingers moved deftly to the zip of Sherlock’s trousers. 

Sherlock froze. He had feared this initially. With Moriarty’s taunting and his desire to humiliate, it seemed a potentially logical choice. If such an act could ever be considered logical. At the time, Sherlock had hoped he wouldn’t do anything so common, but now that they were finally here, this didn’t feel ordinary. Not quite. 

And he was too tired to resist. Tired of dulling the pain of losing John, tired of pretending he didn’t feel anything. It was easier just to give in, to feel _something._

All told, crossing this line was surprisingly gentle. 

He wasn’t hard when Moriarty pulled his trousers and pants down, undressing him leisurely and with care. Sherlock didn’t manage to protest, not even once, as he was explored slowly and thoroughly, inspected with fingers and tongue and lips. Sherlock was aware of everything, the sensations and sounds, but not quite connected. Floating, the present not quite real as the smaller man knelt beside the couch, cupping Sherlock’s bollocks licking slowly up his shaft until he grew hard. The warmth of his mouth enveloped Sherlock’s cock, his insistent tongue coaxing sounds from him that seemed harsh and foreign to his own ears. Surely it couldn’t be him making all that noise, far too wild and raw. But deep down, he couldn’t escape the fact that these moans, and finally shouts, were his own. Just when he thought that he couldn’t take any more, when everything was overwhelming _too hot, lips pressed too tight,_ it was all far too much, Moriarty had pulled off and looked up into his eyes.

Sherlock’s breath hitched and he arched up and although he said nothing, asked for nothing, in every movement he was begging to be touched.

“Oh, we aren’t through yet. No, I’m just getting started.” Moriarty crooned.

Sherlock was needy, practically whimpering. He should be terrified, and he was distantly aware that perhaps a part of him was, but it was drowned out. All that remained was this terribly unbearable arousal. Dangerous and all-consuming. 

He brought his fingers to Sherlock’s mouth and without being told, he licked and sucked. 

“That’s it. Nice and wet,” Moriarty said before going back to sucking Sherlock’s cock, spit damp fingers brushing over his tight puckered hole. The gentle stroking was maddening. His jaw clenched on protests he was sure wouldn’t help and willed himself not to press down against his fingers. The first digit had barely entered him when Sherlock came with a startled shout.

Moriarty took him deep, swallowing around the head of his cock as he came. His finger probed deeper as he continued sucking, stroking his other hand up and down Sherlock’s length, milking the last drops. Sherlock squirmed and tried to pull away, oversensitized. 

When he finally let up, Sherlock reached for him, only to find his hands batted away. “Eager, aren’t you? Not today, though. Today I have already had exactly what I needed.” He bent down and kissed Sherlock, drawing out the last moments of this intimacy. 

Tasting himself on this man’s lips sent an aftershock of desire through Sherlock, making him quiver. Moriarty chuckled darkly into his mouth, stroking his cheek, his hair. As he pulled back, his voice was quiet and gentle, like soothing a frightened child or...pet. “If you mention me to anyone, if you tell anyone you have seen me, I will simply kill them. Don’t think for a moment that I won’t. The gloves are off. Doctor and Mrs. Watson may be out of the country, but they are still well within my reach.” 

He tilted Sherlock’s face up, staring into his eyes. His voice hardened, his fingers tightening on Sherlock’s jaw. “You can’t fake your way out of this, not this time. There is nothing you can do to stop me. No tricks. Just this. _Just us._ All I need is your silence, and of course, you. Whenever I want. You come when I call, you go where I tell you. We understand one another, don’t we, Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes.” Sherlock managed through gritted teeth.

“I’ll be in touch.”

An hour after Moriarty left, Sherlock still hadn’t moved from the couch, not even to retrieve his pants.

He felt exhausted and numb. When the headache kicked in, he couldn’t even manage to get up for water or paracetamol, simply curled up on the couch and slept.


	2. Chapter 2

“Off you pop.” Moriarty gave him a push, just a little nudge really, but it was enough.

He wobbled, tried to catch himself, but couldn’t regain his balance in time. 

_Nothing’s in place, not now, not yet._

_Not like this!_

But it was already happening.

Time seemed to slow and he was falling, falling, the wind rustling in his coat so loud it even blocked out the hammering of his heart.

Sherlock jolted awake just as he hit the pavement, the sickening crunch still echoing in his ears.

No matter how many times he had the nightmare, it never failed to leave him rattled and irritable. It had been months since the last time and he thought maybe it was finally over. But it wasn’t over. 

_It may never be over._  
\---

The text had come a few days later. Just an address, nothing more. Not even a time. Luckily it wasn’t too far away and Sherlock hadn’t been in the midst of anything. Not that that would have made much difference. He had to go. But, as it was, he simply threw on his coat and was off. It was near enough that he didn’t hail a car, but he wasn’t content to walk. Not knowing the time frame, he calculated that sooner was better than later and ran much of the way. 

When he arrived, he found the door unlocked. The flat was bare, with the exception of a large, plush, Persian rug in front of the hearth. The building was chilly, despite it being Summer, and the merrily blazing fire was peculiar, but not actually unwarranted.

Sherlock saw no one. He listened, but could hear no signs of movement in the flat. He cautiously stepped in and was taking a quick tour around when he heard the door close. 

The voice behind him crooned, “You are biddable these days, come when you’re called, don’t you?” Soft hands stroked down the side of his neck. “Such a good boy for me. But I just don’t quite trust those reflexes yet.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened in confusion a moment before he felt the prick of the needle at his neck. 

The syringe clattered to the floor. Sherlock had batted at it involuntarily in surprise. Actually hitting it while it was in his skin would have been foolish, so he supposed it was for the best that Moriarty hurled it away with alacrity. Less fortunate was the fact that those same reflexes had him pinned against the wall, his right hand at Sherlock’s throat, gripping with enough pressure to cut both air supply and blood flow. 

He felt dizzy, stars blooming at the edges of his vision. Not much time. He knew the dangers of maintaining that hold for too long. He fought his instincts as best he could and stilled under Moriarty’s touch. _Surely if I don’t fight, he’ll let up._

And seconds later, he did, rewarding Sherlock with a smile and praise. “There now. That’s a good boy.” 

Sherlock sucked in air and coughed as he was led to the rug before the fire, and shoved to his knees. His head was swimming. 

Sherlock lifted his hands, not even sure himself whether he was going to bat Moriarty’s hands away or help him. But whatever the gesture might have been, it was lost. He felt clumsy and slow, his limbs, leaden. He only succeeded in throwing himself off balance. As he swayed, Moriarty put out an arm to steady him. “Oh yes,” he smiled, “that looks like just enough this time.”

He unfastened Sherlock’s deep purple button up and slid it from his shoulders, dark fabric giving way to pale skin, the silk making a soft sibilant sound as it fell. He left the trousers on for now and guided Sherlock forward, laying him out on his stomach, running his hands over every bit of the exposed flesh. The rug was plush and soft beneath his chest, his cheek. 

Moriarty caressed his back, tenderly, from the nape of his neck down, making little circles in the dimples on either side of his spine before turning his attention to the lines of years and years of scars. He traced lingeringly over them one by one. Some over sensitive, some still felt like wounds, despite clearly having been healed over for some time. Others felt nothing at all. But the ones in between that were sensitive on the surface, but eerily numb below, made him shiver. Somehow, it always made him feel like he was being touched by a ghost. 

_And aren’t I?_

With any other lover it would have been sentimental, sweet even, mapping out your loved one’s skin, their unique responses. And he was, in a way. But today at least, he was clearly drinking in Sherlock’s discomfort, always returning most often to those that made him shudder and break out in gooseflesh, rather than the spots that made him sigh with pleasure at the contact. 

Moriarty straddled his hips, as he continued to stroke the scars, shifting against him. It could have been accidental, but soon became too obvious to be anything but by design, rubbing against the crack of Sherlock’s arse through their clothes. Sherlock shivered anew and shifted beneath him, unsure even himself whether he was trying to shift away or give in and appreciate the friction against the rug.

Moriarty moaned, fully hard now, rutting against Sherlock. He eased up a moment and turned Sherlock over, cupping the obvious bulge. Sherlock’s eyes closed, lips parting in a moan. As he opened his eyes, looking into Moriarty’s, he could practically feel his own pupils dilate.

“Oh, you like it, don’t you. Can hardly wait for more. What do you need, Sherlock? Do you want a taste?” 

He didn’t wait for a response, merely guided Sherlock’s hands to unfasten his trousers as he finished undressing Sherlock, divesting him of trousers and pants, adding them to the heap where his shirt had fallen. 

He lay back, guiding Sherlock towards his rigid cock. It had been so long since Sherlock had done this. He tried to fight it, but he did want this. 

Whatever he had been shot up with made him feel like he was floating, like nothing had ever, could ever be wrong. 

His lips and tongue ghosted over Moriarty’s cock, teasing. The musky scent of lust mingled with Bois 1920. Not his cologne. Well, not from before. A lot could change in two years, couldn’t it? Was it a recent change? A choice for this? Did he think Sherlock would like it? 

It was almost cloying, but perhaps just as it was not what he had imagined. 

_Imagined?_

Even as he balked at the thought, he knew that he had. Why deny it?

But his thoughts were lost as Moriarty bucked his hips, thrusting past Sherlock’s lips. He swirled his tongue around the head of his cock, then flattened it, lips tucking under to guard his teeth. Whatever he didn’t remember consciously, it seemed his body did. 

He sucked hard as Moriarty thrust gently into his mouth, his hips bucking involuntarily with the pleasure. Sherlock nearly dropped his own hand to his cock, but successfully fought that desire. He had to maintain some dignity in all this. _Really? Says the man on his knees servicing his most hated enemy? Nochoicenochoicenochoice_ he tried to tell himself, but that didn’t stifle his moan as the velvety glans slid against his soft palate. _Fuck._

Sherlock choked and spluttered when Moriarty came, without warning, holding him close. Moriarty’s laughter rang in his ears as he swallowed in an effort to breathe again.

“John Watson really didn’t know what he was missing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the relatively short chapter. The next is longer.
> 
> I intend to update on Tuesdays and Fridays until it is all posted.
> 
> Comments welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this chapter early, because tomorrow will be too busy. Hope you like it.

**October 30, 2008**

“Hello?”

She almost didn’t pick up, but something told her to trust the retired Colonel. Officially retired, at any rate. That didn’t stop him from doing a bit to help out now and again. They had never met in person, but he had been her father on one mission. They had talked everyday on the phone, feeding the people who had bugged their phones just what information they should have or slipping one another coded messages in mundane conversations. After the mission was over, they spoke occasionally, admiring a bit of work here and there. So, she wanted to trust him. And if this was a disaster, she could burn the phone and pick up another. It was hardly the most difficult thing she’d had to do lately. 

And it said something that it was him and not her C.O. Right?

James’ voice was rough, whispered as though he couldn’t afford to be heard. “Susan?”

Well, she was this time. For the moment, at least.

“Yes? James?”

“I know what you did and I know why. You were right, but they won’t see that. I can’t call them off, but I can get you out. My brother can help.”  
\---

Charles Augustus Magnussen. Sherlock had heard of him long before Lady Smallwood had come to his door. It made Sherlock’s blood run cold how he used people, exploited their differences and mistakes for his own purposes. He ruined people’s lives or had whole countries eating out of his hand. Of course Sherlock took the case.

Magnussen had seemed completely untouchable. So this, this was practically a miracle. After ages, well, days at any rate, of trying to find a way in, he discovered that he already knew Magnussen’s personal assistant. Finally something going right! 

Janine! Smart, lovely, bridesmaid Janine. _Brilliant!_

She was his way in. She had to be! And it might not be so terrible. At least he had enjoyed her company. 

Of course there were likely to be tedious aspects, relationship and all, but he would do nearly anything for a case. John used to say that he probably had. Many things, certainly. He was sure there were limits, but as he hadn’t been pressed to find them, that was largely irrelevant.

It certainly helped that she had liked him. Made things remarkably easier. _Now how to find her..._ Even if they had been in town, he didn’t want to ask John and Mary how to contact her. Boring. Besides, it might be best if they weren’t involved. At first, anyway. Might need John later. 

Well, if John would come.

For the next few days, his network helped track her movements. It seemed she frequented the same cafe every morning. That was convenient.

The following morning, he went, just a few minutes before she was likely to arrive, so he was settled at a table with a coffee and the morning paper when she stepped in to the cafe.

Her face lit up when she spotted him. Just as he had hoped.

“Sherlock?” 

“Janine? What are you doing here?”

“Morning coffee, same as you, it appears.”

She hugged him hello and touched his hand when she talked. He consciously looked at her lips as she talked and offered to buy her coffee. She accepted and they sat together, their chatting as easy as it had been at the wedding. It was so rare to find someone he could be fairly at ease with. Really, only John. It wasn’t quite the same, certainly. No one else was John, but nonetheless, it was not unpleasant in the least. 

She took the cues. She seemed to be coming around to the conclusion that perhaps he was more shy than queer, as she had originally assumed. Inaccurate, of course, but in all the ways he wanted.

By the time they left coffee that morning, he had her number and a dinner date the following night.

John would surely remind him that he shouldn’t use people like this. But he pushed it away. It was the only chance he had. _And besides, John is not here._  
\---

Mary. Mary Elizabeth Morstan. That had been her name for five years now. All legal and if you didn’t trace it back too far, or too carefully, quite legitimate. She had practiced her Ms until they were perfect. Until it looked like the first letter she had ever learned and certainly the most important. Children were usually quite fond of their names, especially first names. She had spent hours as a child curled up at the desk in her bedroom, perfecting the rise and fall of her As, the exact spot she thought the cross bar fit most elegantly. 

It had become a ritual. With every cover, every new identity, she practiced her new initials until they flowed easily and beautifully. Since then she had used many names, seemingly innumerable. She wasn’t sure when she had lost count. Frequently only borrowed for a day, a few weeks. A month at most. But this one, she burrowed into, making it hers as much as it ever could be. Until now. Now was even better. She had changed names for subterfuge, for deception and refuge, and out of utter desperation, but this was different. For the first time in her life, she was changing her name for love. 

She took out a fresh, crisp piece of parchment and picked up the calligraphy pen again. She put it to paper, and set to work filling the page with the letter W. _Watson. Mary Watson. Mary Elizabeth Watson._

She sighed with contentment.  
\----

Sherlock stared at the computer screen.

The email had been typed for hours. 

> Are you two enjoying your ridiculous sex holiday? Honeymoon. Whatever. I have plans. When are you going to  
>  come home? Well, that probably sounds alarming. Things are alright here. Sorry. Our dear John can attest, I  
>  don’t chat well. Just come when you can. Home is boring without you two. Nevermind. Really, stay.
> 
> I cracked a safe out of boredom. At least that was useful. Still bored. I’m hiding, in my usual spot upstairs in  
>  221C. Mycroft is bothering me. Finally threatening me over sending those plans to locations unmentionable  
>  over email. You remember that fiasco? Ask John about it. Nothing I can’t sort. Simply tedious. Well, I’ll go for  
>  now. Silly, really.
> 
> Enjoy the holiday!
> 
> -SH

This seemed innocuous enough, didn’t it? It sounded good. Well, not good exactly, but normal. For him at any rate. The note itself was just babbling, like when he got on one of his streaks, a stream of consciousness that seemed almost manic. Shouldn’t set off any flags. Should it? 

What remained to be seen was whether she was in the habit of checking all her messages for code. Was it only when she received something peculiar and threatening?

Sherlock read through his message again, checking every fourth word.

Are your honeymoon plans going well  
Alarming here  
John don’t come home  
You stay safe at useful hiding spot  
Mycroft finally sending locations  
You ask nothing  
Simply go  
Really  
-SH

He paused, thinking about all the people he has been dragging into his mess. If he didn’t care, none of this would have happened. If he didn’t love John, he wouldn’t be in danger. And his new wife! Now, their friend Janine. It was as though once he had started letting himself feel, everything had gone to hell. Was everyone near him in danger?

Mycroft’s voice in his head mocked, “I told you, little brother.” _I know, I know. Caring is not an advantage._

_I had always assumed he meant for me. It seemed my caring was a disadvantage to everyone._


	4. Chapter 4

His phone beeped. _Lestrade._ A crime scene. Just what he needed!

Sherlock stared at the screen, hesitating. He could just send the email. A moment longer, then he copied it and saved it as a document and closed the draft. He should just have hit send, but he couldn’t. It felt like there was something he had missed. 

_“What? What did I miss?”_ echoed uncomfortably in his head. He hated that feeling as much as he hated Moriarty’s words ringing in his ears.  
\---

He hadn’t been on site that long and was still examining the body when his text alert sounded again. It had been two days since the last time. 

His heart rate increased. _Now?_

“Sorry. Must run” He began to sweep from the crime scene, but paused and said over his shoulder, “I am sure even you lot can handle this. Definitely murder. Not the brother. See if her boyfriend has the retractable prop knife in his room. Text me if you find anything.”

“Sherlock-” Lestrade began, but when he looked around, Sherlock was gone.  
\---

It was further away than the last meet location. Still residential. He took a cab and arrived within half an hour. 

The flat was furnished this time. He doubted Moriarty would invite him into his home, but it looked lived-in. There were rose petals on the floor, on the table, a large bouquet on the mantle. 

It was the only third week of their little trysts, a text coming every two or three days, but Sherlock felt like he had lived lifetimes. And when he didn’t think too much about it, there was something oddly comforting about the choices being eliminated, to simply go where he was told and do whatever was demanded.

Moriarty sat on the couch, his bare feet casually propped on the coffee table. He was paging through a magazine, not even glancing up when Sherlock closed the door, just extending his arm, brandishing the syringe at Sherlock, though he hadn’t uncapped it yet. 

Sherlock stepped towards him, reluctantly offering his arm, in the hopes that if he didn’t struggle it would be easier. And he far preferred a shot in the arm to one in the neck. Utterly resigned to the fact that this is how it was going to be.

“Aw, so well trained now aren’t you? My perfect little pet. You know, I’m not sure you even need any encouragement.” He stood and tucked the syringe away in its travelling case before he began unfastening his flies. “Such a little cockslut," he taunted as Sherlock dropped, unbidden, to his knees. 

Moriarty fucked his mouth slowly. His strokes were deep, but never rough. Not even cupping Sherlock’s head, only occasionally stroking his hand through Sherlock’s curls. Perfectly content to let him set the pace, to let him pull back when it was too much and he needed to catch his breath. It all seemed so… normal.

Moriarty pulled a bottle of lubricant from his pocket before stepping out of his trousers and pants. The suit trousers he draped over the back of a chair with care, but the pants, custom made and silk, no less, which cost more than most men spent on shirts, he carelessly let fall, kicking them away. 

Sherlock stripped as well, his cock already half hard, laying against his thigh. 

Moriarty pushed him onto the couch and looming over him as he slicked his own hand, before straddling Sherlock’s lap, gripping them both in one hand, pressing their cocks together. He tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, kissing him hard as he rocked his hips forward, hot, naked flesh rubbing deliciously. Sherlock shivered at the contact, his moans broken and half-voiced, caught in his throat. 

He could feel the heat as his face flushed. His breath hitched. “Yes,” he breathed, so close, needing just a moment more, his hips involuntarily bucking up. He cried out, shocked, when Moriarty stood up abruptly. 

Sherlock’s eyes opened. He wasn’t sure when he had closed them. He looked up, fearing what might be playing across his face, feeling lost. 

“Not quite yet,” Moriarty whispered. “I’ll have you properly this time and you aren’t going to come until I do.”

He took Sherlock’s hand, helping him to his feet and led him down the hall.

The crimson rose petals littering the floor released their sweet fragrance as they were crushed under his feet. A dramatic parody of romance, or did Moriarty actually think this is romantic? Big day. _First time without drugging his partner and all._ The thought tasted bitter and he pushed it away.

The room was was simple, expensive without being showy. Sleek modern lines, all black and white and grey, touches of chrome and glass, in contrast to the petals strewn across the grey comforter of raw silk. On the bedside table, there were a budvase of flowers, a bottle of lubricant and an ornamental knife. No condoms, Sherlock noted, with more resignation than surprise. _It wasn’t exactly like the consulting criminal to favor safety._

In fleeting moments it had occurred to him, _best not to dwell on the possibility unless it arose..._ If it was unavoidable and there was little to prevent it, he would deal with things as they came. But in those brief moments when he had considered it, he had thought there would be violence. When he thought about it at all, it seemed that he would scream. _Wasn’t that what people did? Scream and fight and call for help?_

Nothing like this. 

Moriarty drew him into his arms, pressing their lips together in a rather chaste kiss at first, despite their nudity and all that had gone before. Sherlock swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. He couldn’t scream, he didn’t even want to talk, not that he could with their mouths crushed together. He returned the kisses, the sounds of their lips and tongues and breath, somehow loud in the quiet of this room. Their breathing, like his nerves, seemed to be fraying, becoming ragged. Rushed. 

Moriarty leaned him back on the fully made bed, kissing down his throat, his chest. Taking up the bottle of from the bedside table, he coated his fingers, nudging apart Sherlock’s legs with his thigh. It took a great deal of Sherlock’s restraint not to buck against him, seeking friction.

He drew a sharp breath at the cold of the slick fingers circling his entrance. Of course preparation was better than none, but it felt intrusive and horribly intimate. Moriarty looked into his eyes as his slipped the first finger inside and held, Sherlock clamped down against the invasion. Moriarty let out a groan, clearly affected by the impossibility of ignoring what that would feel like around his cock. 

Sherlock willed himself to relax as Moriarty fingered him, slowly pushing in and out. This would be over sooner that way, wouldn’t it? _I want it to be,_ but even in his thoughts there was a note of question.

Moriarty leaned down, kissing and licking the soft flesh of Sherlock’s thighs, the pleasure of it relaxing him further, until Moriarty was able to slide a second finger along with the first. The new stretch burned slightly and Sherlock cried out, a panicked sound ripped from his throat as he felt a third finger already pressing close. 

Moriarty chucked darkly. “Relax,” he said, sucking a spot on Sherlock’s left thigh hard enough to mark as he crooked his fingers gently. Sherlock shook as though electrified, nerves sending a skittering, pleasurable frisson everywhere. 

“There. That’s it,” Moriarty said as he slipped the third finger in place, slowly sliding them deep and back out. “Almost ready for me.” 

After a few more strokes, he flipped Sherlock onto his hands and knees, gripping his hips as he slid in, the head just breaching Sherlock’s slick hole. He stopped, his voice was low, roughened with desire, “You are so tight. And you love this, don’t you? Don’t lie to me Sherlock.”

Sherlock merely whimpered in response, for once not trusting himself with words. He couldn’t say it. He didn’t want this. Not here, not...He didn’t. But... 

_A part of me does._

Moriarty leaned forward, bracing his hand in the middle of Sherlock’s shoulder blades, pressing him into the mattress as he slid fractionally deeper, pushing in as slowly as possible. Did he think it would be easier if it was gentle or was he simply savoring their first time, revelling in the feel of finally claiming him? It was impossible to say. 

The bed smelled like the cologne Sherlock remembered Moriarty wearing before. _Was that comforting? Why was that comforting?_ Sherlock’s body had resisted the intrusion reflexively, but relaxed suddenly. He had been opened well. There wasn’t any pain, just a bit more stretch and then fullness. Such incredible fullness. 

As Moriarty continued, slow thrusts until he was fully seated, his free hand caressed Sherlock, feather-light touches, stroking down his back, his sides. 

Sherlock shivered. His body seemed to have a will of its own, contacting and rippling around Moriarty’s cock.

There was something almost like love in the roll of Moriarty’s hips and the way his hand worked reverently over Sherlock’s cock as he moved inside. Not that Moriarty was capable of love. But almost. _Almost._

That was what he always found _(deserved)_ , wasn’t it? _Almost._

It hurt, but not his body. Just in the way it edged too close to what would never be. That was the point. The lesson he never learned. He tried, he truly had. _Caring is not an advantage caring is never an advantage love is dangerous you lose your edge you lose you lose you lose...everything._

 _John._ He couldn’t help but think what John would think. He stilled completely, screwing his eyes shut against the thought. _I would lose him forever._

 _Haven’t I already?_

He pulled all the way out and Sherlock whimpered at the loss of contact. “So cold. You don’t have to be, you know. You should just give in. Admit how much you like this new game of ours. It really is even more fun than the last one. Why fight it?” He licked the shell of Sherlock’s ear, hot breath making him shiver once more. He kissed and nipped down Sherlock’s neck as he slid back in. “Feelings are part of the journey, Sherlock. So many feelings. I can taste them on your skin. And you feel this, don’t you?” he said, punctuating his words with a sharp thrust of his hips. Sherlock groaned. “Not so above it all when you are under me.” His voice was soft and teasing. Sherlock looked over his shoulder and their eyes locked. Moriarty held his gaze as his slick hand slipped around once more, working over Sherlock’s length. Again and again. 

It was easy to focus on meaningless details. His hands were smooth, not calloused or rough in the least. Of course not. He didn’t like to get his hands dirty. Funny considering their current position. Well, apparently even when he did deign to get his hands dirty, they would be cleaned and buffed, manicured and lotioned afterwards. Perfectly maintained. 

And when Sherlock came, spilling over Moriarty's hand, his eyes pricked with tears he would not let fall.

“So hot and tight... pulsing around me, Sherlock,” Moriarty thrust deep, his bollocks drawn taut in near orgasm, pressing against Sherlock’s perineum. Sherlock could feel every pulse of the cock twitching inside him as Moriarty came. 

As he withdrew, Sherlock felt loss and emptiness that wasn’t purely physical.

Sherlock lay worn out, still face down in the now rumpled bedding, head half-buried under the pillows. He knew he was a mess, but he couldn’t be bothered to move. Moriarty had stepped out of the room, presumable for clean up, but who knew. Sherlock was nearly asleep and hadn’t heard him return, so he startled slightly at the scrape of metal against glass as Moriarty picked up the blade.

“Do lie still,” Moriarty said, his voice taking on a warning edge as he rolled Sherlock onto his back once more. 

Straddling his legs, Moriarty bent forward, swabbing his hip with an antiseptic wipe before hastening to slide the blade along Sherlock’s soft flesh.

Sherlock hissed, trying to process the pain and ignore the way his cock began to thicken. He winced, turning away, as though he could bury his face in the pillows.

“Really, Sherlock?” Moriarty raised a brow at him, adding in an undertone, almost to himself, “I hadn’t predicted that.” He stroked a finger over Sherlock’s length. “Can’t have you squirming about while I work, though.” He pressed him tighter into the mattress as he continued. 

Sherlock tried to keep track. Five small lines, one of them curved. He couldn’t tell for certain without looking, but he and a fairly good guess. 

Looking into Sherlock’s eyes, Moriarty said, “Oh, you are more fun than I had even imagined.” He swiped his fingers through the blood welling up at Sherlock’s hip. A drop fell from his fingertip to the comforter, staining it as red as the petals. He rubbed the rest over the head of Sherlock’s cock before bending down to licking it away. 

Sherlock shuddered against him on the coverlet, the bed a crumpled mess of crushed rose petals, come and blood. 

Sherlock hadn’t remembered falling asleep, but woke as Moriarty placed a plain wooden box on the bedside table. He was clean and dressed. “I hear coming down is a nightmare, but we don’t need it anymore. I want you really here, like this, now that you are all trained up.”

Tapping it lightly, he said, “In case you need it in the meantime, Love. I wouldn’t want you in too much pain.” He leaned in, his voice quieting to a sex roughened whisper, “Especially when I am not here to enjoy it.“ He gave Sherlock’s hip a quick squeeze, smiling wider at the way he winced. 

He set Sherlock’s phone on top of the box, “Keep it close, in case I need you.”

When he had gone, Sherlock sat up. Opening the box, he saw the filled syringe Moriarty had brandished before, still capped for sterility, several extra empty syringes, disposable wipes of surgical spirit, and a bag of clear crystalline powder.

_Yes, leave the broken addict with his fix. But in this case, you’ve also given a scientist something to analyse._

_Not usually so sloppy, Jim._


	5. Chapter 5

That night, the first night he hadn’t been drugged, Sherlock was practically crawling out of his skin after Moriarty left. 

He wanted to analyse the drugs, but he couldn’t. Not yet. He needed his equipment, possibly even the lab, and he couldn’t go there like this. He couldn’t go anywhere like this. 

How could be be this exhausted and so jittery at once? _Too much to process._ His heart was racing like he had too much caffeine, but all he wanted to do was sleep. He dozed in and out, not even bothering to clean up or get under the covers. 

His skin felt hot again. Too hot for it to be mere blushing, but that didn’t stop Moriarty’s taunt from one of their first nights, echoing in his mind. _“Blushing like a new bride? Really, Sherlock.”_

His text alert sounded. _What now?_ Sherlock looked. 

_John._ He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, clutching his phone, but didn’t answer. How could he?

_He doesn’t need me. Not really. He has Mary now. And besides, how could I possibly lie to him about Moriarty? It wouldn’t even be enjoyable to lie to him about Janine._

Any time he had to lie to John it had left him inexplicably sad. He did it, when it was necessary, but he hated it. With anyone else it was just something that must sometimes be done, more neutral even than a necessary evil. But with John, it hurt. It actually hurt. 

There were three more texts that he didn’t answer. And then the phone rang. Still John. He couldn’t… he just couldn’t. _Especially not today._

His cheeks flushed hot as he flashed back to broken moans and the rhythmic crash of the headboard against the wall. Of the wet heat of Moriarty spilling inside him. Of the filthy, absolutely debauched picture he hadn’t known was taken until it came through as a message. Arse up on the bed, white fluid seeping from his abused, reddened hole. 

He almost deleted it, but instead made himself stare, eventually saving it for when he needed reminding. His fingers slid absently to the bandage on his hip. 

_J M_

The cuts were clean and should heal fine. He hoped they wouldn’t scar.

_This. This is what I have become._

_And John?_ John had normal, now. It was what he had convinced himself he wanted. The best Sherlock could do now was to try to keep that safe. 

_And away from me is definitely safer._

He set aside the phone, sinking into the bed, finally allowing exhaustion to overcome him.  
\---

The flat was clean and tidy by appeared empty and still. Well, the middle of the night often had that empty quality. He hadn’t been here often enough. It felt like a stranger’s space. Here and there, he could see touches of John or Mary, but the whole flat felt more like a set. Or a cleaned crime scene. Sherlock shuddered minutely at the unbidden thought.

He passed the door that would be hers, the little one, walking by quickly. The master bedroom door was open and he hovered in the doorway, almost uncertain on the threshold. Mary, curled peacefully on her side, John on his back. The twitches of his face and restless legs a clear sign that his sleep was troubled. Sherlock watched for the space of one heartbeat and another, before taking a step into the room.

“John,” he whispered. “John!”

Mary turned over in her sleep, but did not wake. John blinked blearily.

“John, I need your help.” His words came out in a rush, but hushed.

“Sherlock? It is the middle of the night.” John croaked. ‘What are you doing here’ remained unspoken, but clear in his tone.

“Please,“ Sherlock said.

Where Sherlock led, John followed. They exited the bedroom and Sherlock ran down the white, wrought-iron, spiralling stairs with John trailing after. Had John said something about a suitcase?

Out on the street, Donovan grabbed John by the arm. “Stay away from him. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes. One of these days, we’ll be standing around a body and he’ll be the one that put it there.”

Sherlock called back for him to hurry up and John shrugged her off.

They ran and ran through the city. Breathless. Joyful.

But somehow, when Sherlock blinked, John was in the lead now. “Come on. He’s getting away!” He called over his shoulder.

John disappeared down an alleyway and around a corner, dashing here and there, always a step beyond Sherlock.

Sherlock lost sight of him near the pool. How did they get here?

The smell of chlorine was almost overpowering, even from outside. He reached for the door and just as he opened it, the explosion happened, the flash of light absolutely blinding. Sherlock was knocked off his feet. The air reeked of blood and smoke.

“John?” he screamed, regaining his footing and rushing forward. In the debris, John lay on his back, eyes wide and staring, his chest a gaping hole. Sherlock ran to him, holding him close, heedless of the blood covering his hands. He held John, rocking slightly.

“This isn’t supposed to be this way. I love you, John. I should have told you, I should have trusted....” But his words broke down in choking sobs.  
\---

November 5, 2008  
Clear as if it were happening now, Mary remembered that night and how polished Jim had seemed. A little unstable, she thought, even then. But perhaps, you’d have to be. 

He had given her the new paperwork, her new life. Of course she had the skills to steal an identity or create one, but she no longer had the connections to make it permanent. Sailing in and out of names and lives was one thing when it was part of the job, but she didn’t want that anymore. And she certainly didn’t want to live her life on the run. So here was her saviour, the man with the connections to give her a real place to stay, one person to live into, to become. And there was only one tiny, little, nearly insignificant catch. She had to be ready to work for him. Just now and again. Nothing regular. 

“And you wouldn’t have to do anything you don’t already,” he had assured her, silkily. “I just need someone with your particular skill set on my side. Working with criminals, you occasionally simply need to put one down.” He glanced up at her, practically batting his lashes. “You could handle that, surely? What’s a little wet work to a soldier, a sniper no less?“

And she had agreed. After all, taking out a few criminals didn’t seem that much different than hunting down terrorist targets, did it? It was just a little freelance cleanup, instead of government sanctioned. 

By now, a year and a half later, she’d had plenty of time to settle in to this life. She had dated on and off, though no one special. She had started her nursing training. It seemed right to try to heal people, making up for what she did, starting fresh. Enjoyed her small flat, a little circle of friends. It was a nice life.

And then the call came. 

Her services were needed.  
\---

Sherlock awakened in the grey dawn. Sitting up, a wave of dizziness washed over him, Disoriented, nightmares still clouding his thoughts. He wondered where he was for a moment and then it rushed back. Stumbling towards the bathroom, he felt sick. His skin felt tight and itchy where come had been allowed to dry. Rose petals clung to his arms, his back, his cheek. 

He switched on the tap of the shower, letting the water run until it was as hot as he could stand. 

Clean and dry, he thought he would feel better, but the scent of his shampoo and soap clung to Sherlock, impossible to escape. Nearly suffocating. He had to get out of here, but made himself stay. If the bath products were his, was there anything more to be learned from the flat itself?

Eventually, Sherlock retrieved his clothes, his phone, the mysterious wooden box, and he left.

When he reached his own flat, Sherlock showered again, trying to scrub the scent of the man from his skin. 

Reddened and raw, but feeling more himself, Sherlock was able to turn his mind to the work. Just one more thing to do before he could turn himself wholly over to research. 

He had to keep the addict rumour going and Wiggins was only too happy to provide. He was used to the pattern now, cocaine taken away and heroin enjoyed in house. 

“Wha’s your pleasure today, Shezza?”

“On the go today,” was all Sherlock needed to say.

He left with what he needed, though undecided on whether to actually use today. He wanted something to clear his head, but was certainly best to wait until he saw what exactly was in his system. Could prove rather important depending on the half-life of the drug and any contraindications. So far, he only knew with certainty that it wasn’t anything that showed up on a regular drug test, having tried several at home. Perhaps he should have done a blood draw, but by the time it occurred to him he was sure it was too late. Everything that he knew of would have been gone. Now, he had the perfect opportunity. Patting the wooden box, in the inner pocket of his coat, he headed to the lab. 

Thankfully he found a place he could work in peace. Didn’t exactly want to explain this to Molly. It could be for a case, of course, but the less anyone saw of him with syringes and unmarked powders, the better. Well, until it hit the papers, that was, but that couldn’t be helped.

A few tests on the solution in the syringe and the crystalline powder gave him the information he needed on the drug and the dose that had been used.

Of course it hadn’t shown up! It was a thienodiazepine and most tests looking for drugs with this kind of effect are looking for benzodiazepines. 

Sherlock set to work devouring whatever he could on etizolam.  
\---

June 15, 2013

The same flat as the first time. No roses and no gentleness. Moriarty pushed Sherlock onto the bed, merely slicking himself with a bit of lube. 

Sherlock lay on his back just as he’d fallen. There was no preparation, no careful opening or banter about not breaking his toys. Not this time. Moriarty settled between his thighs, bracing himself on Sherlock’s knees, forcing them towards his chest and apart as he buried himself in a single thrust. Sherlock keened at the sudden intrusion. The zip from the trousers chafed. Moriarty hadn’t even bothered to undress.

“Oh yes, today… today I just need to hear you scream.” And as Moriarty drove forward, his fingers digging into Sherlock’s hips, until he was sure they would bruise, Sherlock couldn’t help but oblige. Bending down, Moriarty captured Sherlock’s nipple between his teeth, making him yelp. He trailed bite marks across his neck and chest, moaning as Sherlock shuddered, squirmed to get away, cried out beneath him. 

Moriarty bucked against him, relentlessly seeking his own pleasure until Sherlock was raw.

It was rough, and when it was over, for the first time in their encounters left Sherlock utterly unsated, sore, and hard despite himself.

“Just what I needed,” Moriarty growled. He cleaned up quickly and left without another word.

When he felt like he could walk, Sherlock shakily stood up and retrieved his phone, texting Janine that he had to work late. 

And in a way, he did. Continuing to establish a _false?_ pressure point counted as work these days.


	6. Chapter 6

March, 2010  
Throughout the year, there had been drug dealers and arms runners, and notably, a rapist that Mary had been able to stop before he attacked his next victim. Though in retrospect, if she had tracked him just a bit faster, perhaps the intended victim wouldn’t have ended up covered in his blood. 

Still, the jobs hadn’t been a problem. They weren’t very frequent. She was trained for it and they were clearly deserving, even if vigilante justice wasn’t her style. She did her best to push away the knowledge that Jim worked with these people, that they were simply no longer useful or had crossed him, or both. She certainly didn’t dwell on what would happen if she outlived her utility.

It wasn’t until after the mess at the pool that she started to feel trapped. She was given almost no intel about her targets, not called upon to track them herself, even. Merely given a location and a time. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she had seen these two before, but they definitely didn’t seem like criminals. 

She was almost relieved when the shoot was called off and she could make her way home. As soon as she walked in the door, she sat down at her computer, fingers clacking over the keys as she typed “Sherlock” into the search bar. It was an unusual enough name, it should bring up what she wanted if he was anyone of interest.

Not criminals. Not even close. A detective. Well, a consulting detective, but he worked with the police, for goodness sake! And the other was a soldier like she was, well had been, and a medic to boot. He appeared to not have taken the special forces route, but sometimes it was hard to tell and she didn’t have the access she used to. 

She was shaken, no longer able to justify that what she was doing was anywhere near comparable to her work before. She couldn’t even tell where the sides were, let alone if she was on the right one. But it was beginning to look like playing with Moriarty was very wrong. _Not that I can avoid it, now._

From then on, she kept tabs them, the targets from that night. John’s blog was useful, and they were often in the papers. She read any articles she could get her hands on, not even sure quite why.  
\---

Sherlock had spent the better part of his morning and afternoon reading up on etizolam. He wanted very much to chalk his feelings up to the drug. Certainly enhanced them, if the feelings could not be said to have been wholly manufactured. Euphoric, generally used to treat anxiety but used recreationally by some for the floating, calming effects, a sense of detachment and well being. His emotions had been numbed. The shock, the fear of Moriarty in his return had felt distant. Sherlock had simply gone along with everything that was done. No resistance at all. His body had felt slow. Lack of coordination apparent in higher doses. People did things out of character.

It didn’t absolve him of the fact that his body was craving Moriarty’s touch, even as he was repelled by it, but it was oddly comforting to know that the drug was altering his brain chemistry, rather than merely his motor skills. Unfortunately there were also memory effects. Potential blackouts, amnesia. And while he wasn’t aware that he had any of those for certain, the residual lack of clarity was maddening.

His hand slipped into his coat pocket, fingering the packet from his stop off this morning. Etizolam didn’t have any negative drug interactions that he could find and most of it would be out of his system by now.

John wouldn’t approve, but Sherlock was fairly certain he wouldn’t approve of any of what he had been about lately.  
\---

Hours later, Sherlock lay on the couch, and stared ahead, his fingers steepled under his chin. 

_I think I am finally losing my mind._

So much blood. Definite head wound. He had watched it happen.  
_yes, and John watched me._

But this was different. _I was right there with him, not several stories away. Nothing blocked my vision. I shook his hand._ There hadn’t been any time, any space for misdirect. He stuck the gun straight in his mouth and fired. How much clearer could anything have been? He was dead. He had to be dead. 

But he wasn’t. 

Could he just have had very precise aim? Angled to miss both brain and spinal column? Still, if that were the case, how could he just lay there? If he was still alive, he would be in excruciating pain. It didn’t make sense.

However improbable, Sherlock had to go with the facts. He had just seen, touched, _been with_ Moriarty, ergo, he was clearly alive.

But there were little things he couldn’t quite make sense of. He kept returning time after time to the scar on the back of Moriarty’s left hand. Not reddened or pink. It was old and faded to silvery white, but Sherlock had never seen it before the Fall. _Was there anything else?_ Moriarty was definitely left handed. Sherlock would never forget their little silent tiff over the teacup. It had made him smile, then. The petty ways they annoyed one another when the game itself was so big. But, yes, clearly left handed. He had surely shot himself with his left hand.

In the flat, the furnished, quiet, lived in little flat, Sherlock had looked the whole place over before he had made his way home. There were no obvious indicators of who it belonged to, but he remembered looking at the desk. Little wear marks and holes in the dust where things had been moved since it was last cleaned. The phone and note pad had been switched. 

They had been set for someone left handed and someone had switched them to the right. So many little things. _What did they mean?_

_If someone wanted to gain the advantage over me, muddling my thoughts was perfectly sensible. But…_

Jim had always wanted Sherlock at the top of his game. Taunted him when he thought he was getting anything less. It just didn’t add up. 

_What was he playing at?_

But before he could get much farther, Sherlock was startled by his alarm. _Damn it._ He had to get ready. Janine. They had dinner reservations. All the tedious trappings of a relationship. It had only been a few weeks and it was absolutely wearing on him. _How do people do this?_  
\---

Sherlock had texted. “Need John on a case. Is he busy tomorrow night?”

Mary answered immediately. “John is perfectly free. Don’t let him tell you otherwise, either. He could use a bit of time out of the house.”

She couldn’t have asked for anything better, in fact. No need to invent a girl’s night to get out of the house if he was already gone. It had taken too long to find a back way into Magnussen’s office but she had. _And finally alone, his office breached, sitting at the end of my gun, perhaps he would finally listen to reason._  
\---

No text, no meet location or anything that would give Sherlock even a moment of mental preparation. Not this time. He had been a couple buildings away from Magnussen’s, surveying the location. Purely in case mode.

Moriarty’s voice, just behind Sherlock, ordered, “Turn around, take the first door to the left. You’ll see signs for the loo. Go there, now.”

Sherlock nodded minutely and he walked. His legs felt like rubber. _Why was this so much harder?_ He saw the signs in the lobby and made for the gents.

A few paces behind, Moriarty followed. Sherlock tried to walk naturally, not draw attention. _Why here? Why now?_

The door clicked shut, the noise echoing around them in the tiled space.

“Please,” Sherlock said, the plea sounding foreign to his own ears, “You’ve made your point. You can always find me, I would do whatever you want. What more do you need?”

“Need? Oh, Sherlock. This has never been about needs. I _want_ this. And so do you.” He ran his hand down Sherlock’s cheek as he crooned, “Our little game. This is just the next move. Get on your knees.”

Sherlock hesitated, glancing at the door. It didn’t lock. Busy building. Anyone could walk in. 

Moriarty smiled, drawing out his phone, his fingers dancing over the keys. Sherlock couldn’t breathe. Was that it, all it took? Hardly resistance, the smallest protest? “Don’t please, I’ll...” Sherlock took a step towards him.

Moriarty’s phone beeped and he tuned it to face Sherlock, fingers damnably covering the number, so he had no clues there. It was a photo, clearly from a bit away, but fairly clear. John at the clinic, exactly as he would be now. That rapidly, someone could have him in their sights.

“It could all be over that fast, Sherlock. Is that what you want? Go ahead. Resist. _I_ certainly don’t care what happens to them.”

Sherlock let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He got to his knees, trembling hands reaching to unfasten Moriarty’s flies.

Moriarty smiled down maliciously at him, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “You’re mine, Sherlock. Anytime. Anywhere. You weren’t even difficult to follow.” 

\---  
Hidden, turned away from John, Sherlock could have remained out of sight. There was no reason at all to have broken cover. _Perhaps I just thought he was a vision, high as I was._ And the impulsiveness didn’t help. 

Longing for his company, despite the potential danger, inhibitions lowered as they were, Sherlock had called out to John. 

_Utterly, damnably stupid._

And John had answered.

Sherlock had been trying so desperately to establish a pressure point that wasn’t a loved one and better still one that made him look like a harmless junkie, too addled to be any threat.

Registering the quick succession of surprise, outrage, hurt, anger, and frustration that played over John’s features, Sherlock was sure of his mistake. _...hurt John again._

_Always, it seemed, no matter what my intent._

He endured the awkward dragging from crack den, the even more awkward drug testing, and hatefully, the subsequent atrocity of Janine and John in the same room. Nearly unendurable while maintaining this relationship charade.  
\---

Breaking in was easy, really by the time it happened. Just a little footwork and of course, Janine. He did wish John didn’t look quite so horrified at the proposal, but it couldn’t be helped. It was the only way. 

The scent of Clair de la Lune. 

He had so clearly thought it had been Lady Smallwood! Even rushed up, thinking, perhaps there was time to stop her from doing something truly foolish.

And then the night had utterly gone to Hell.

“Oh, Sherlock. If you take one more step, I swear I will kill you.”

_Mary?_

_No matter what he has on her, no matter why she is here, surely she will listen I can help its what I do. John’s wife? She won’t kill me. She couldn’t possibly…_

“No, Mrs. Watson, you won’t”

But as soon as the words had left his mouth it was very clear that she would.

Her face looked so anguished, so heartbroken as she apologised. 

“I’m sorry Sherlock. I truly am.”  
\---

Mary looked at him. She had only seconds to decide. Should she pull the trigger? She had warned him, she had begged him with her eyes to believe her, to go with it. Magnussen _had_ to believe that she was exactly this crazy. They couldn’t start to doubt now. She had them utterly convinced that she would do anything, kill everyone, kill herself even, before she let John know she had lied. Obsessive assassin in love. 

Christ, she hadn’t really intended to kill anyone tonight. Hopefully, she hadn’t. John was a doctor the ambulance was on the way. He would be alright, wouldn’t he?

But did she want him to be?

Mary let out an exasperated sigh as she hurried down the stairs. If Magnussen had just given her the bloody files, none of this would have happened. But he couldn’t very well do that if he was dead. All she needed was her past back and secure. Well, or to figure out what the bloody trip wire was in all this. What scenario was supposed to trigger her kill mission. Knowing both would be better. Easier to stop it all and just live her life. 

But then Sherlock had arrived. Sherlock? Fuck. _This_ was his case? This place, this night? Served her right for not even asking where he was taking John. 

She was supposed to be on her way home, ready to enjoy actual, peaceful domestic bliss right now. 

Oh, what a bloody awful mess.


	7. Chapter 7

Everything still hurt. The nurse came to check on him and Sherlock couldn’t even form words. She admonished him to rest, not talk and pushed up the morphine. He faded in and out of hazy sleep.  
\---

“A bit not good,” Molly and John said together, giggling at the synchronicity.

“Why do you let him manipulate you?” John asked her.

A small stage, like a school auditorium or a community theatre. Mrs. Hudson’s table laden with a full tea spread in the middle of the morgue, warmly gleaming wood out of place among the sterility of black and white and steel.

She looked down at her teacup as she spoke, “Same as you, I suppose.”

“Too stupid to see it coming, then, ‘til you’re in the midst of it?”

There was a pause, a space, a beat. Complete with theatrical instrumental accompaniment like a this was a comedy show, before she said, “In love.”

John pulled a face. Dramatic shock, mugging for the audience. Canned laughter echoed from somewhere.

“He doesn’t mean to be awful, you know. Once remarked it was ‘kinder’.”

“Kinder?” her tone was as incredulous as John’s had been at the time.

He laughed hollowly. “In the lab, with Jim. Telling you he was gay. Seemed to want to deter you from unattainable attachment.”

Another musical beat. The canned laughter was louder this time, nearly drowning out her line, “Funny, that.”

They nibbled tea sandwiches and biscuits for a moment before John spoke again.

“Isn’t all attachment rather unattainable for him?”

“Oh, John.” Molly set her teacup aside, patting his hand,”No. Just undesirable.”

John waivered, nearly taking a bite of scone, before dropping it on his plate in frustration, “Isn’t it?”

Beat. Beat.

She looked out to the audience, “Your thoughts or his?”

Beat. Beat.

“Is there any difference here?”

-Curtain-  
\---

Sherlock woke in hospital still, surrounded by the beeping of machinery. Shaking his head slightly, clearing the dream state, he dropped the morphine. _Clearly had quite enough of that._

Now he was awake and could finally sit up, but couldn’t think until some of the drugs wore off. Everything was dull, fuzzy, like his head was swaddled in cotton batting.

His text alert sounded and he looked to his phone. Moriarty, of course. Thankfully his text read, ‘I guess I will play fair. You can't exactly come running, respirator and all. Rest well. We'll play again soon.'

Moments later, another arrived. ‘I’d say give John and Mary my love, but you remember what happens if they hear about us.’

Sherlock winced and wondered what would happen if one of them found the messages on the phone, but the pain was too much even to delete them. His eyes slipped closed his eyes again and this time slept without dreams.  
\---

People came in and out. Mycroft. John. Hadn’t seen Mary alone since that first day.  
He had heard Mycroft assuring the doctor that they were family, or might as well be. John, at least, Sherlock wanted here. Mycroft? Well, Mycroft was unavoidable. And Mary? She was unlikely to attempt anything further with her husband and Sherlock’s brother in tow, so not an imminent danger.

But today was notable. Janine had come round. If Janine could visit, that was good. Very good. Of course she was a bit upset, but overall, their little chat went better than he expected. He hadn’t figured she would want to see him again at all. And what did it matter if she was having a bit of fun with the press. 

He dropped the morphine as soon as she was out the door. It hurt, but he had to be able to think. Besides, it was mostly important that she think he needed it, craved it, could hardly sit up without it. Hopefully that would get passed along to Magnussen somehow.

_Stabilized enough that they are letting non-family visitors in, must be stabilized enough to let myself out._

But where to go? He sank into his mind palace, trying to figure out what it was about Mary…  
\---

“Sherlock, where in bloody hell are you? You shouldn’t be out of hospital yet, let alone scaling buildings and running around the city.”

John was worried, but Sherlock laughed in spite of himself. “Thank you, _Mother_. I didn’t go out the window in this state! That was just a clue that I was actually gone and not just having some kind of test or examination. It was important that people actively search for me. I can’t explain now.”

He ignored John’s mutter of, “Of course you bloody well can’t.”

“John, listen very carefully. I have important information about the person who shot me. Tell Lestrade you will text him when you’ve found me or you know anything, but come alone. Meet me at 23 Leinster Gardens as soon as you can get there. Bring your gun and pray you don’t need to use it.” 

This had to work. _If I am right, if you are what I think you are, this will work. And if I am wrong? God help us._  
\---

_From the moment I had been shot until that very moment, I worried she was the danger, a new, sudden, and terrible threat. But there, in the hallway in Leinster Gardens, I could see it. She was a trained assassin, but here she was as much a victim as I was. Vulnerable. Panicked. And if I couldn’t save myself, at least I could save her, protect the life John chose._

Sherlock offered to take the case, but the devastation on her face when she knew that John heard, that he knew, had sealed it. Of course there had been a perfectly good chance that her shot would have killed him. _We would rather kill or die than harm John Watson._ And that suited Sherlock just fine. He didn’t miss how she looked away guiltily when he pronounced it surgery. He had to say it. In time, it might allow John to forgive her. So while he did not miss it, he did ignore it. 

It just proved she made the same choice he would.  
\---

There she was told to sit and there she sat. _Oh, God. How had everything gotten so out of control?_

Sherlock was right. Of course with her training she could have found a cover identity. Securing a name, a birthdate, these were never the problem. One could be nearly anyone for a day or two. But to keep it? To stop running? That was the real trick of it and that took help. Tell them or hold something back? _Not used to putting all my cards on the table for anyone._

She closed her eyes. This was it, then. Where they would decide if she was worthy of their time, their help. Their love. And it was both of them. Never any delusion about that. _I can’t help but see their terrified faces, smell the chlorine. I nearly killed them both that night. How could they forgive me?_

_I don’t even forgive myself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was so short. Expect another on Tuesday. Questions, comments, or concerns are always welcome here or on my Tumblr (same name).
> 
> Also if there is anything I should tag that I haven't, please let me know.


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft had the flowers brought over from the previous room. Sherlock hadn’t paid them much attention, but there was a new bouquet. He noticed that much. He plucked the card from the arrangement.

The front was preprinted with the inscription “Missing You,’ underneath which was written, “Best wishes for a speedy recovery. -M” 

It could have been a variety of people, really, if he hadn’t recognised the writing, but it was the back that sent chills skittering down his spine.

“Tsk. Tsk. Naughty boy. Sneaking out of your room. Brought you flowers and everything. Daddy’s quite cross. If you’re up for adventures out of hospital, perhaps I’ll be needing you sooner than I thought. XOXO”

Of course. With scrubs and a mask, anyone could get in. Simplest disguise in the world, so many people wearing them in the corridors, walking from one room to the next, nearly interchangeable. but the idea that he had been here, that he was getting so bold, was somehow distressing. _Really, in all this, that is what’s distressing?_

 _Shutupshutupshutup_  
\---

Sherlock could hardly stand a day in hospital and it had been weeks. He had managed to piss off most of the staff and lash out at nearly everyone who came through the door of his tiny, hatefully boring room. Between his phone and the laptop, he was able to get some work done, but nothing like he could at home. And he still hadn’t found a way in to Appledore. 

When they finally agreed to let him out, his doctors admonished him that he still should have a month or two before he would really be considered healed. He needed to take things slow and easy until then. 

“Have they met you?” John quipped.

Sherlock’s smile was genuine, but moreover, so was John’s. It practically lit up the room. They laughed together as John helped him out to the cab.  
\---

He had only been home for a couple days when he got the text. 

“Did you miss me? Don’t worry, Love. You sit tight, I’ll come to you.”

It was the middle of the night. No one awake. No one to hear... or help.

“Hi honey, I’m home.” he trilled as he walked in. “You already in bed, Love?”

“Well, you told me to sit tight,” Sherlock replied dryly.

Moriarty appeared in the doorway, his smile warm and... hungry. He crossed to the bed, leaning down to kiss Sherlock.

When they broke apart, Sherlock winced, stammering, “On the dresser, my pills, please, before…” 

Moriarty smiled indulgently. He glanced at the label on the morphine bottle briefly before shaking one into his hand. “Open for me,” he said. He placed the pill on Sherlock’s tongue and brought the cup to his lips, tilting it gently, not letting a drop spill. 

“Someone was very naughty, trying to break my toy.”

“I’m sure they had a good reason. Backed into a corner.”

Moriarty laughed at that. A wild burst of giggles that was more frightening than joyful. And his voice was cold when he replied, “Maybe I should be blaming you for this, then. I’m sure she did.”

He took his time, opening Sherlock up slowly, as he stroked him to hardness. He used more lubrication than was strictly necessary and worked up to four fingers, the stretch making Sherlock cry out.

It was differently invasive, here. Sherlock generally didn’t want anyone in this room, certainly not like this. It was too personal, his space alone. There was only one man he had ever pictured here with him. _And that was never going to happen._

Finally, Moriarty shifted over. He slicked himself, settling back on the bed against the headboard. “Come on. Easier with you on top while you’re healing, ” Moriarty said, patting Sherlock’s hip. 

Moving gingerly, Sherlock settled onto his lap, slowly filling himself on Moriarty’s prick, gasping at the intrusion. Even with the build up, there was a slight burn. Sherlock inhaled, a shaky breath, trying to assimilate the sensation.

“Oh, I have missed this. Do try to keep yourself from getting shot. Being this patient is tedious.”

Moriarty stroked his hands soothingly down Sherlock’s sides and back.“There now. Settle down. Wouldn't want you pulling stitches. It isn't any fun when you break your toys before you're done with them." 

They paused for a moment, locked together, adjusting to the tightness, the fullness, before Sherlock rolled his hips, his breathing ragged.

“That’s it. At your pace, love.”  
\---

Lying on the pavement, body aching everywhere, it seemed as though everything was broken. Unlikely that it was actually every bone, but likely enough of them. Certainly his skull. John’s voice the only sound echoing everywhere as if on repeat. . 'He’s my friend,'  
John never reached him. No one came to help. His head swimming...bloodloss...and

He was six again, the water of the pond icy cold, closing over his head. It shouldn’t be that deep, but it seemed so. He fell so far and so fast and in his startlement he tried to breathe, the pond water burning his lungs. He tried to fight for the surface, but topsy turvy he couldn’t tell where he was going. There wasn’t any sunlight to follow yet.

 _I shouldn’t have come out here._ Mummy and Daddy will be cross. _Stupidstupidstupid_

Just wanted to watch sunrise, sky turning rosy, under the oak tree.

He remembered the blackness, the moment everything stopped. He didn’t see a tunnel or a light or anything, everything just ended.

And then he was _coughingchokingwet_ , on the bank, Mycroft pressing on his chest. They were both shivering, eyes wide.

Blinking, blurry.  
He was disoriented, everything too loud and bright. The only sound he registered was a voice, her voice, whispering, frantic, “You don’t tell him. Don’t tell John. Look at me and tell me you’re not going to tell him.”

Heart pounding, Sherlock woke, in his bedroom, alone.

He couldn’t fall asleep again. He lay there for hours, endless thoughts distracting him

Moriarty was dead, ended the threat overcome.  
Amended: Moriarty owns me in my misguided senseless sentiment for John. 

John, who takes care of me, keeps me safe.  
 _Amended:_ John _took_ care of me and _wanted_ to keep me safe.

John once joked that he wanted to hit me, violent nature under the surface, but had trouble when I needed him to actually do it for a case. Sentimentality. I had to throw the first punch.  
 _Amended:_ John had no trouble hitting me, throttling me when I returned. My poor choice of words and venue for return not a help. He feels betrayed when I tried to protect. Confusing. Inextricably related- he has moved on. He has Mary now...

_You can live a whole life not realising you had been lonely, until you find someone whose presence you crave._

_And if they were gone? Was it worse than never finding them?_

But he wasn’t gone, not exactly. Just not here. Not immediately available. 

It was hard to ignore how John would surely feel betrayed by this method of securing his safety, too. _But, does it matter, as long as it works?_

And it was working. So far. _John and Mary are safe as they can be._ No other solution. Is there? _I am missing something, I am sure I am missing something._ Too mired in what this feels like, on edge, on guard, waiting. Waiting... for the next call, the next moment, the next…

_Fix? Orgasm? Come now, what am I really waiting for?_

_Clue!_

_The next clue that will help me solve this puzzle, get out of here, out of this._ With no idea who gets a signal and when or what it might be to keep them from shooting John or burning his flat while they’re asleep, _how could I stop it?_ Maybe that is the key. Figuring out the signals. Or…

There must be some end to this. His thoughts turned darker in the quiet of this early hour, the come down from his earlier fix likely not helping.

_Do Moriarty and I both need to be alive? He intended to drive me to suicide once before..._

Would have to message him first. _Otherwise I might miss a text, being dead and all._

_Couldn’t. No._

But a small voice in back of Sherlock’s mind whispered that he could envision it all. Safe, everyone safe. Oblivion would claim him. And it wouldn’t feel like this any more.

_It was foolish to even think. Wasn’t it?_

_stupidyou’vealwaysbeensostupidsomeoneelsewouldfigurethisoutwouldhaveescaped  
youjustlikeitcraveithishandsonyouhiscockburiedinsideyousomeattentionbetterthannothing_

Was that the point? Finish the job?

It was beginning to sound like a reasonable solution.  
\---

Mary texted him and begged to meet. Well, if she were going to kill him, she had other opportunities. So it didn’t seem any more foolish than his life usually was, these days more than most. Sherlock wished he could have read the files beforehand, but there was nothing for it. John hadn’t offered them and his computer was back at the flat anyway.

She chose a cafe. It wasn’t particularly busy at this time of day, so there was some measure of privacy, but it was public enough. Her intentions were clear. He wouldn’t be taking another bullet today.

She began without preamble when they were seated with beverages neither were likely to touch.

“John knowing isn’t the whole problem. I said that he wouldn’t love me when he knows all I’ve done, but I could try to live with that. I could. But, if anything happened to me, I wanted him out of it. More than just plausible deniability. I wanted complete darkness. A past erased, a past that _for him_ never existed. All I want,” her breath hitched, ”all I want in the world is to be Mary Watson. And I almost am...” Her eyes were filled with tears. Sherlock saw none of the tells he knew for lying, but she was good. She could still be faking it, but few were that good.

“A bit late for that now, isn’t it.” _A bit too late for both of us… for either one to truly be John’s other half._ He couldn’t help the thoughts that crept in around the edges of his consciousness. If he didn’t acknowledge them, would they eventually go away? He willed it to be so.

“Well, yes. Once you know there is a past, you’d never stop digging. How could you? It wouldn’t seem safe. It wouldn’t even be sane.”

“Yes, right. And the deception you have going on certainly isn’t consensual, so whatever power games this mess is built on, we’ve already broken all the rules” Sherlock smiled grimly. “So what now, _Mary_? ” Her name sounded wrong now, but he had nothing to replace it with.

“What I am left with is this. I want whatever documents exist, so no one else has them. As it stands, Magnussen can reign fire down on me, on us. He could have me taken out. And if I can sneak undetected into a home and kill my target while they sleep, there are others who could do the same to me, to John. Some want me dead, but more probably want to rob me of the person I care about most. Because that is what I did to them. And they don’t understand why. Because we try to protect the ones we love. 

“I can’t even fault them for it. I am doing it right now. I thought I was out. It was all I wanted. And I thought I was well enough hidden. In love and over the moon that I could finally, finally sleep at night. But it can’t be like that. I wish to every god there is that I had never met John Watson, so that I couldn’t put him in danger, but you know as well as I do that he wasn’t coping on his own. We helped him, you and I. And now we have both done a grand job of fucking it all up again. What a bloody awful mess. Perhaps your brother was right.”

They talked it through, learning all about the mission gone awry, the people after her. She had picked up this cover like Sherlock discovered and burrowed into it with every fibre of her being. All she wanted was to be Mary. _Mary Watson._ Everything she said rang true and fit neatly with who she appeared to be. 

It was clear that she was brave and fiercely protective. She was also absolutely terrified. Sometimes you can sense fear when someone was lying. But she wasn’t terrified he wouldn’t believe her, just that he wouldn’t accept her, that John wouldn’t forgive her. And so rattled. Everything had died down. She had thought she had made it, that she was finally safe. 

And then Magnussen had come after her.

Her voice was choked with emotion, genuine and heartbreaking as she finished, “You wanted to know why I didn’t come to you? Because you don’t help murderers, Sherlock. You help the victims, you solve crimes. I know what I’ve done and I do not deserve your help and I will never deserve John Watson. But that doesn’t stop me from loving him. ”

And how could Sherlock, of all people, fault her for that. He smiled.

“I’ll talk him round for you.”

“Oh, will you now?” she laughed, her eyes suddenly filled with a spark of hope, as she recognised his particular phrasing. 

Sherlock’s tone turned serious. “I will.”

He only hoped he still had that right to convince John of anything. 

_And the ability._


	9. Chapter 9

The case had been too quickly wrapped up. So now they sat in the flat, no longer theirs, their silences not entirely easy any longer. Foolish to think coming back was as simple as the reveal at the end of magic trick. Some days were simple, the laughter and work caring through and it was so close to what they had, the rift mending. Others were filled with stony silence and awkward pauses, The Work the only saving grace. This wouldn’t help, but had to be done. “I spoke to Mary.” Sherlock said, his tone light, fooling no one.

John’s hand clenched at the mention of her name. He hadn’t really spoken to her since that night in this very room. 

“Yes. I’m sure. You two have a lot in common.” John said with a tight smile that did not reach his eyes.

Neither of the Watsons had moved out, but John had taken the spare room. He worked cases with Sherlock whenever he could, often out late. And if he spent a few more nights at his local than he had before, Sherlock wasn’t planning on mentioning it. Not yet. 

Of course John and Mary spoke at the clinic, but that was business. They both added to the grocery list. They left bills and notes out for one another as needed. It was a strange dance. Sherlock didn’t like being in the room with them. They managed to orchestrate everything so they never touched, using words too efficiently, everything clipped. Pure work. 

There was no light in either of them. Everything, everything falling apart. 

_A lot in common._ Sherlock blanched, and hoped it wasn’t too visible. “John, she lied. She lied about a great many things, but the fact remains that she does love you. And there are parts of her past that are quite easy to understand.”

John’s voice was quiet but dangerous as he rounded on Sherlock. “Why, Sherlock? Why does it matter to you?” He was louder now, practically shouting, “ Why does it bloody well matter to you? She’s my wife and I don’t even know her goddamn name.”

_It doesn’t do for everyone to be in this much pain. She meant well, even if she is a liar and killer. It couldn’t hurt to have an assassin who loves you like I do. If you can forgive her maybe I’ll truly believe you’ve forgiven me._

They were all true and none quite the whole of it. 

He saw her earnest face in his mind. The way she wrung her hands before beginning. The way she plead her case. _“Imagine your mission was wrong. Sherlock, you understand what it is like when you see things that no one else sees! What if you saw something different in the information that you received. What if no one believed you? I remember Moriarty going on and on about Carl Powers. You were a child and no one believed you.” She had looked imploringly at Sherlock, willing him to understand, to forgive her._

_“I am a woman and had several men above me in rank. They didn’t hear a word I said. We were going after the wrong target. It was as clear as it could be to me. I could see who the real target should be, and we weren’t just wrong, we were going to walk right into a trap. Some of us, maybe all of us, were going to die. And I couldn’t let it happen. I broke cover, blew the trap. No one died, though they thought I had._

_“When I tracked and killed the actual terrorists, they knew my work. They could see I was alive, but they never listened to who the real target was. It looked to the outside like I had gone rogue. Like I was just a contract killer. I went from from prized agent to terrorist threat. To make matters worse, I now had kicked the hornet’s nest that was this actual terrorist cell. They were better organised than I thought. Killing the leaders didn’t end it. I did things that I will never forget, never forgive myself for, to escape. Civilians died. Children. And good soldiers who were just doing their jobs.”_

“John, what would you have done if you knew, absolutely knew, that a mission completely misdirected and was surely going to get your team killed?”  
\---

Sherlock awoke to the sound of a text alert and glanced toward the noise. The phone lay on the bedside table. It was Mary’s number.

He nearly answered, but suddenly froze. That wasn’t his phone.

He could hear water running. Moriarty was in the shower.

He blinked, looking again, careful not to touch. The text simply said ‘Checking in’.

Sherlock’s heart was in his throat. It was all he could do not to scream. _No. I’m dreaming. Mary isn’t involved. She can’t be. Not like this. After everything?_  
The water cut off. Sherlock lay back and closed his eyes. He willed his breath to slow, falling into his usual sleep pattern, deep and regular.

The only thing worse than Mary being involved would be for Moriarty to discover that he knew.

Moriarty slipped into bed behind him, kissing his neck. “Morning, sunshine.”

Their everyday interactions had fallen into a rhythm, so much like they were just lovers. Like Sherlock’s world wasn’t crumbling.

And that day, when Moriarty slid into him, he didn’t even try to keep himself from crying.

He felt, empty, hollow. Ridiculous as the sentiment might be, he couldn’t shake the feeling that at any moment, his chest might simply cave inward. 

When he finished, Moriarty brought a flannel and cleaned him up. Sherlock didn’t flinch when he kissed his shoulder and told him how good he was. 

“You can stay if you’d like. The room’s paid for. I have a bit of business to take care of, but don’t worry, we’ll be together again soon.”  
\---

It was several meetings later before Sherlock had a chance to steal Moriarty’s phone, Sherlock found text after text just like the first. Mary’s ‘checking in.’, answered only with ‘carry on’. Sometime between noon and one, every three days. Time after time, day after day. 

Each time he loaded more messages, Sherlock thought _this will be it, or here’s where it starts,_ but it never was. 

_How far back did they go?_

He heard the little sounds of drawers and footsteps and rustling clothes, letting him know that Moriarty was out of the shower and coming back and quickly closed everything and put the phone where he had found it.

He stroked himself, willing his body to comply as he lured Moriarty into another round. 

His mind was reeling as he let his body be used. Like being trapped in a nightmare, now more than ever. 

_It is my whole purpose to know what other people don’t, to see what others don’t see. How could I not know? If she is involved with Moriarty, how can I protect John? But what if she is being trapped like I am? I vowed to protect them both. Too many questions... data incomplete… can’t solve…_

His thoughts chased themselves until they dissolved into static. 

Moriarty pulled out, his come splashing across Sherlock’s cheek and collar bones. He barely registered even that his own body echoed it. Perfectly sensible, _hated, traitorous,_ automatic response to stimuli. 

Sherlock fought himself, warring desires and reasoning. Lap it up? Rub it into his skin? Scrub himself in the shower until he could pretend none of this happened at all? The last was weakest today, but more what Moriarty was actually going for, he assumed. He reminded himself flatly that it was clearly designed to be degrading, not make him unbearably aroused. Knowing that, however, did nothing to calm the reaction. Nor did it help when Moriarty ran his fingers through the mess, bringing them to Sherlock’s lips.

But as he was left alone, his usual self reasserted itself. The scientist, the detective. He wanted evidence. _For what?_ To study, compare, analyse? _To prove that Moriarty was really here and I’m not just losing my mind?_

He carefully made a slide, wondering if he _was_ completely crazy. Almost as an afterthought, he prepared another slide, scraping skin samples from under his nails. He had clawed his nails down his back in passion and if he was going this route, he might as well have whatever evidence he could manage. He didn’t understand why, or even if there was anything to compare them with, but if felt right. Grounding somehow, while everything was falling apart.  
\---

June 16, 2010  
Mary stretched and padded the few paces from bedroom to kitchen, sleepily going through the motions of making breakfast. Just a little toast and tea before her early class today. One glance at the clock told her she even didn’t have time for an egg. She couldn’t be late. Her nursing degree going well, but this was a tough one, and so bloody early in the morning. 

When tea was brewing, she grabbed the paper from outside the door and dropped it on the table without a glance, turning to take down a plate from the cupboard. The pop of the toaster right on time. She was humming a little as she plated it and grabbed her tea, settling at the table. 

She had just taken a sip, flipping the paper open with her left hand. Jim’s picture glared out at her from the front page, ‘Richard Brook, beloved actor from The Storyteller, age 36, found dead’. 

Mary froze and the moment stretched out before her as if in slow motion, as she felt the cup fall to the floor and watched it shatter.

She went about her day in absolute shock. And the next.

For weeks she teetered from numbness to panic, wondering when someone would come for her. She barely slept. She carried her gun. But there was nothing. It seemed that whoever had been tracking her lost interest long ago and that when Moriarty died, perhaps her past died with him. She thought she was free.

 _And for a while I was._  
\---

Sherlock was already panting. His skin felt too tight, his mind too fast. Moriarty was touching him again, gently fingers brushing over his skin. 

Sherlock wanted to be anywhere else. It was too hard. Too much had happened and he couldn’t even see what he was doing this for any longer. Moriarty carefully stroked the healing flesh, deducing as Sherlock had, admiring Mary’s work. 

“She could have gone for a headshot. But she didn’t. Thought she’d leave it up to fate, didn’t she? Careful aim, but still, abdominal wounds are tricky. Could have just bought time, leg, shoulder and kept you from following her, but she didn’t. And you never thought she’d do it, did you? Completely blindsided.” He chuckled, mocking. “So clever, but you miss so much. Quite the blind spot you have for Mrs. Watson. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you loved her, too.” He took in Sherlock’s face. “Nah. Just an extension of John, isn’t she.”

“I could have warned you, but where would the fun in that have been. I rather hoped she wouldn’t lay down her cards just yet, but some things are unavoidable. Of course, she is the fiercest assassin I have ever had the pleasure of working with. And she is quite a pleasure. A genuine tiger, that one. And she lives with him. Everyday.” Moriarty smiled sweetly at him as he added, ”And she makes him happy in ways you never could.” 

His face pulled down into an exaggerated frown. “And she had been so disappointed to have to stand down at the pool. Likes to shoot people. Well, you know that, don’t you?” He said, pressing lightly on the scar. Sherlock winced, even as he tried to process. The pool. Back that far? _fiercest assassin… pleasure working with._

_There was always something. Something missed…_

Moriarty worked his hand over Sherlock’s hard length. They had hardly begun, when he bent forward, whispering against the shell of Sherlock’s ear, “Do you think he ever thinks of you when he fucks her?”

Sherlock wasn’t prepared for his own reaction. Without warning, he came, splattering Moriarty’s trousers.

“Naughty boy. The mess you’ve made! Clean it up.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he surprised them both with the force of his reply, “Make me.”

“Really, Sherlock. Make you? I thought we were well past games.” Moriarty said reproachfully. “But if you really want, we can play,” he said lightly, before grabbing Sherlock by the throat, jerking him forward. He tangled his hand in his hair, pressing his face to the spot. “Go on. Use that tongue of yours.” 

The fabric felt strange against his tongue as he complied. But there was a peculiar rightness in the force. He needed it to be like this. Needed to be pushed, hurt, used. It felt more right than anything had in weeks, since his life had turned upside down.  
\---

Sherlock met John for a pint at John’s request, this time. John had listened to all Sherlock had to say, but it was too big to make any decisions then. He promised to think about it. So here they were. They drank and talked. Well, John drank, anyway. Unusual as it was, Sherlock was there to listen. 

“I keep staring at it and can’t get myself to read it. No matter how betrayed I feel, I just can’t get her face out of my mind. How she looked that night when she begged me not to read it in front of her. And I… I just can’t bring myself to plug it in. So, you have it.” he said, pressing the A.G.R.A. drive into Sherlock’s hand.

“You’re sure?”

John gave a curt nod and took a long pull of his pint. “You’ll tell me if there is anything on it I need to know.” 

Sherlock swallowed. There it was. That trust. So longed for and yet... I already know too much. But maybe, just maybe it would tell him something he didn’t know, something to make sense of it all. “Of course,” he managed as he slipped the drive into his pocket.   
\---

He wanted to look at the drive, needed to examine it. Every detail might be important. Any scrap of new information a possible clue. Something to tell him if they really could trust her. If there was any way to save them. To get out of all this. But before he could, there it was.

The text alert sounded and the flutter in his belly didn’t feel like fear now. With a sick lurch, he realized it was anticipation. _Pavlovian. Mundane. Boring. Hateful._

It was _all hateful._ He hated him. Hated being toyed with and seeing no way out. 

_There was always a final way out._

_No, no, no!_

But the worst of it was his compliance. How he simply hadn’t resisted, went with it every time, from the very beginning, until yesterday. And even then...hadn’t it just been the need to feel like he was being forced? Reassurance that he would be made to comply if he had the strength to resist.

No. Actually, the worst was too awful to contemplate, but now the thought had occurred to he, he couldn’t stop. Part of him was starting to crave it. He couldn’t deny the heat flooding his traitorous body, half hard just getting the alert. 

Or the way he was outright disappointed at a text from Lestrade. Calling him to a double homicide, no less. Because it wasn’t _him._

_Wrong. It was all wrong._

But it had felt right to be on his knees, hadn’t it? His face pressed against the soft weave of the wool, lapping his own come off Moriarty’s trousers like a dog. _Don’t. Stop. Don’t think about it. Not like that._ Wonderful to be touched and wanted, in the moment, even if it made his flesh crawl to think of it when it wasn’t happening. _Doesn’t it?_

 _And John?_ What would think if he knew. Would it be the last straw? Could he forgive this? _That I am bedding the man who strapped Semtex to him and played with him like a pawn._

He shuddered, remembering the teasing tone in Moriarty’s voice. _“Next time we can really play. Perhaps I’ll bring a few special toys. Maybe even a friend.”_ His tone made it sound like a treat. But Sherlock scarcely dared to imagine what that would mean. 

Whatever it was, it was bound to be better than the gentle caressing, the soft kisses as though they were boyfriends? Lovers? 

There wasn’t exactly a term for sworn adversaries with benefits. _And you don’t generally spread your legs, panting and nearly begging for your enemy to shove his cock in your arse._

That day, as soon as Moriarty had left him, Sherlock ran, barely making it to the bathroom before he retched.


	10. Chapter 10

“Call John.”

“What?”

“I want you to call John. Tell him about your latest case. Talk about the weather. Ask about his dear wife. I don’t care. I just want to listen to that voice of yours, to hear you as you squirm under me and try to keep speaking.”

Moriarty smiled at him, handing him the phone as he straddled Sherlock’s hips.

The phone felt heavy in Sherlock’s hand as his fingers closed reflexively around it. He was immobilized by panic. His mind screamed, _RED,_ but there was no safety here, no sweet game that could be called off.

_I can’t do this._

What if John noticed, heard, figured something out? Could he call someone else? Lestrade? Mycroft? No. It would hardly be easier and Moriarty would surely know.

“He’ll know something is wrong. I always text.” Feeble at best, though it was accurate.

Moriarty simply frowned, as though that thought was not even worthy of response, but when Sherlock continued to hesitate, he added, “Perhaps you broke your hand chasing a criminal.” He said with enough edge it was clear he might do just that. “Now, do as you’re told.”

He closed his eyes, resigned. What else could be done?

Sherlock jumped when Moriarty actually knocked the phone out of his hands as he began to dial.

“Oh, love, you should have seen your face.” Moriarty laughed.

He leaned low and whispered, “You would have done it, too. I would actually love you to, but there is always the chance he really would figure something out, isn’t there? And we couldn’t have that.”Just toying with him. Relishing his pain, the control he had. 

Sherlock shuddered, closing his eyes, and wished for it all to end.   
\---

She hadn’t had lunch with Janine in ages. They had bonded over their mess with CAM, confided in one another a bit, even nearly planned to take him down. As Janine chattered away about the whirlwind relationship and Sherlock’s cute, but doomed, proposal, something clicked for Mary. She never had remembered to ask Janine anything about the conversation she overheard at the wedding. It had slipped her mind until now. The more she thought about it, the less innocent it seemed.

Mary had stepped outside for a bit of air. So hot in there with everyone dancing. Janine was leaning on the railing and Mary had almost greeted her before she realised she was on the phone.

“He is clearly still smitten with John Watson.” 

_Oh, Sherlock._ Mary had smiled. Well, of course he was. Anyone could see that. Well, with the possible exception of her darling husband. _Which might be for the best, really._

“Yes. Half the time it was hard to tell whether we were at John and Mary’s wedding or John and Sherlock’s.” 

Mary nearly laughed, but didn’t want to startle her friend. 

Poor Sherlock. They had done their best to make him feel included and welcome and safe, that he would always have a place with them. Didn’t stop the bastard from leaving early, did it. Oh well. It was a lot to handle, what with the speech and the attempted murder and other unexpected deductions. 

“Well, he clearly likes me,” Janine was saying,”but it feels platonic. I think he is rather gay.”

“Yes, well, I tried. I think you’ll have more luck, even though it will scare the hell out of him. Oh, you were hoping that, weren’t you, you bastard.” 

Mary had wondered idly who Janine was talking to, but a glance inside had told her John was starting to look around for her, and the song starting up had sounded like fun. And off she went. She hadn’t thought more of it until now.

But here, Janine didn’t sound like a jilted girlfriend, didn’t seem very upset at all to have discovered their relationship was just a case after all. In fact, she sounded like she found the whole thing funny. There was just something off. Mary smiled and laughed along with her. Best friend and all. But it worried her. Something was going on.  
\---

“Off you pop.” Moriarty’s nudge might have just been intended to scare him, but he lost balance, grabbed Moriarty’s arm reflexively. They teetered together on the edge, neither one able to stop it.

Scrabbling against one another, eyes stretched open in terror, they fell.

If he could just manipulate Moriarty under him, it might break his fall. He could do this, he could survive. 

As they landed with a jolt, the thump and wet crunch of Moriarty hitting the ground first seemed the loudest noise he had ever heard, until the shot rang out. Dazed from the landing, he still looked to John, _always John._ Motionless, face down on the pavement, blood pooling beneath him.

“John!”

His leg buckled under him, broken and useless. 

_Get to John, get to John, get to John._

Sherlock dragged himself along the pavement, heedless of the concrete scraping his hands raw.

He woke, as he always did, before reaching him.  
\---

Sherlock had gotten in to the car when it arrived. They drove on and on. Of course the driver wouldn’t say where they were headed. The windows were heavily tinted, so he couldn’t even use the visuals to guide. He tried tracking the turns, but there were too many misdirects, the circuitous routes turning back on themselves. From the noise of traffic and the feel of the road, at last, it finally seemed they were leaving the city. He thought they might be headed South, but more than that, he couldn’t say. 

When they finally arrived, the car opened at a cottage in the country. The place wanted airing, but it was already semi \\-furnished. He smelled her perfume faintly just before he saw her.

And with Moriarty beside her, it was utterly plain. _How could I not have seen it?_

The same dark brown hair and deep, expressive eyes. Similar noses. The set of their jaws and cheekbones were quite different, but one never could quite account for how features of father and mother would combine. Sensory memory flooding back, their lips even felt the same. 

“Hi, Sherl.” Janine was just a bit younger than Jim and it showed here. She looked almost shy, waving at him. “I told you, you shouldn’t have lied to me.” 

_Lied. Lies. Similarities, lies. There is something here... what is it? Think. Think!_

She glanced from Moriarty to Sherlock, mocking reproach creeping into her tone as she added, “You might have mentioned that you had a boyfriend, you know.” 

She walked over and kissed Moriarty on the cheek. 

“And you might have told me that I knew your brother,” Sherlock replied dryly. 

_lies. marks. brother. Something here, what is it? scar. cologne. lies._

_He flashed on that night, Moriarty pinning him to the wall, right hand cupped around his throat. Right handed. Moriarty taking the teacup in his livingroom, brusquely turning the handle left in irritation, because of course Sherlock had noticed. On the roof, the gun in his left hand._

_right. left. birthmarks. scars. moles. My husband is three people... Not three, two. Only two... twins._

_Twins! It was the only thing that made any sense. He looked at Moriarty, really looked._

Janine took a step closer and caressed Sherlock’s face, distracted him enough that he didn’t see Moriarty move behind him, just felt the prick of the needle.

_Again?_

But something felt different this time. Stronger.

“Ah well, Sherl, Jim was dead and you hadn’t met James yet. It didn’t seem important when we met.” She smiled, “Maybe you would have pieced it together at our engagement party.” 

“That was… never going to happen,” he managed weakly.  
\---

“Oh, good. You’re coming round. Adjusted the dose a bit too much, apparently. But, no harm done. And you didn’t miss much.” Moriarty might have been relaying the weather forecast for all the emotion there.

“Hey now,” Janine scolded, seeming affronted, but the way she hit Moriarty’s arm was playful.

 _Didn’t miss much? Unlikely._ How long had he been out? His head ached. He was shaking slightly. Muscles sore. He felt like he couldn’t possibly move from the plush armchair beneath him, even if he hadn’t been bound into it. He couldn’t remember a thing.

“So nice to hear,” Sherlock said, but the sarcasm was lost somewhere between his thoughts and his speech as he took in the evidence.

Her clothes were rumpled, her skirt wrinkled as though it had been rucked up for a bit. She no longer wore stockings. _Incest,not apparent in their interactions._

Confirmed by the fact that Moriarty’s, _James’s_ , clothes looked pristine.  
Had he stayed? He smelt faintly of smoke, but the room didn’t. So perhaps not.

A torn foil packet lay on the floor.

_Moriarty never had used protection, unlikely to start now. So definitely Janine, then._

It made sense. She had far more to risk. She wasn’t stupid. If protection failed, the last thing either of them needed was a child from this travesty. 

Funny, now. It was part of why he hadn’t. His thoughts drifted back to the hospital.

_“I was waiting until we got married.”_

_“That was never going to happen!”_

It had been so much easier to quip, their easy banter pleasant, however strange the circumstances.

 _But really?_ It was one thing to mess someone around, exploit their weaknesses, play with their heart, but how could he actually have slept with her? Not that _he_ wanted to, but she clearly did. Somehow, it had seemed too cruel. A step too far. He didn’t dwell on that then. It was easier to joke. Easier to let her enjoy the might have beens.

He hadn’t wanted to damage her. He nearly laughed at it now. _He_ had honestly considered _her_ well-being. Between the risk of pregnancy and the knowledge that he hadn’t been tested since his life had devolved into an ongoing affair with drugs and absolutely base unprotected fucking, who could deduce his health status with certainty? It was rather the least of his worries on a personal level, at this point, but to involve someone else, just for cover? He didn’t need John to advise him on the inexcusability of that one. Well beyond his usual admonishments of ‘not good.’

And it was completely irrelevant now. 

A strange relief flooded through him. Surely they were all clean if he just let his sister…

_This, this was the logic now?_

Relief hardly seemed the appropriate reaction to how he had clearly just been used. But between the likelihood that he was clean and the fact that he hadn’t needed to be conscious for it, relief there was. But it was logical, clinical... detatched. 

Janine curled around him, “Well, I was right. Once was nice. Might give me a touch or two more to add for the interviews. Pity you weren’t awake to enjoy it, but, well, figuring it out later seemed more your thing. Right? A better present. This way we both got something we wanted.”

He didn’t want it to be true, but there was something alluring in the game, figuring out what had happened. 

\---  
He awoke, unable to move or see. He was sitting up, his hands bound behind the back of some kind of chair. It was hard, rather than the armchair from before. His hands twisted behind him. Rope. Tight enough that it would take time and diligence to get untied. 

The air in the room was cold. He was nude, aside from whatever was tied over his eyes, blocking his vision and even any light. He couldn’t gauge how long he’d been out or what time of day it was. He didn’t even know if they were in the same location.

He could hear them chatting. Janine’s soft voice saying, “Oh, and I had lunch with Mary today. Might have nicked a couple toys at the clinic. Doubt they’ll miss them.” The soft sound of things shifting, possibly going through her purse, as Sherlock sifted through the possibilities of toys, small enough to fit in a purse that would be obtained in a medical office. None of them seemed good.

There was a soft rustling sound before the lilt of Moriarty’s voice close to his ear. “Remember? You wanted to play.” Then the headphones slipped in place. Noise cancelling, rendering everything so quiet he could only hear his own breath, his own heartbeat. _Maddening._

He couldn’t anticipate what was coming. He started to panic, thrashing in his bonds.

 _Not like this. No data. Nothing._

Maybe he could with _(John)_ someone he trusted. 

Tiny pinprick sensations down his arms, his shoulders, his chest, each tiny spark of pain deepened with his other senses cut off. It was _blissful._ Terrible. _Wartenberg wheel?_

Her nails felt different like this. Everything sharpened by the loss of sight. His hand on Sherlock’s throat, her fingers tangling in his hair. Their lips at his neck. Were they working independently or sharing glances. Did they like to watch one another work? Not enough data. Maddening on top of everything else. 

He tried to ignore his body, his reactions. Fade away to a different place, even as he thought, _Even from this? Even here?_

Sherlock knew he processed pain differently, but usually only in certain contexts. Like with a lover. 

_Well, aren’t I?_

_Technically, perhaps. But the term applied to willing, loving partners, so...No._

He had to remind himself this was all wrong. Who was James? He didn’t even know him. Fear gripped Sherlock. He had some idea of what Jim was capable of and that was frightening enough. He hadn’t ever met James outside of this arrangement. So little to go on. Impersonate your dead brother to, what, exact revenge on the man he was obsessed with? Was that all this was? 

He honestly didn’t know. He simply couldn’t gauge what were they willing to do. Or when they would tire. 

And if Janine had been willing to take away his morphine when he’d been shot, what was she willing to do now that he was healed?

He closed his eyes beneath the blindfold and tried to summon the strength to endure.

Her soft fingertips brushed over his lips. Pressure on his legs as she sat across his lap. 

He hissed as a sharper pain, near burning. Lines like fire across his chest. If the sensation wasn’t enough alone, he could smell the blood. 

Trembling, fear winning out, overriding his typical neural responses as he wondered for the first time in all of this, _Will I survive?_

_And moreover, do I want to?_  
\---

In the end, it hadn’t been unendurable. She tired of the game more easily. He would have “Liar” scratched across his chest for a few weeks, which was a fine piece of irony, but her cuts had been tentative and shallow. Not like James, whose initials he still bore, if more faintly.

He felt the needle in his vein before he was untied. “I’m sure you’ll like this better,” he said, low and sultry as he removed the headphones. 

Sherlock hazily recalled there had been kisses as he stumbled to the car. “Sweet dreams,” James whispered as he shut the door. Sherlock faded in and out of consciousness as he was trundled back to Baker Street.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter and an epilogue left! Thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> The dream sequence in this chapter is especially for mistresskikisshiphassailed. I love and miss you Nikki!

Jim lay in the dirty little padded cell. He looked asleep, but his breathing lacked the associated regularity and he wasn’t suffering from apnea. Faking, then.

“Lying to me never does you any good,” Sherlock said, his tone menacing.

Jim opened his eyes, looking up with puppy eyes, though even his doleful expression seemed false.

“Are you trying to piss me off,” Sherlock muttered darkly.

“Is it working?” Jim asked, wriggling slightly like an impatient toddler.

By way of answering, Sherlock dragged on the chain that bound Jim’s collar to the cell wall, hauling him to his knees.

“You tell me,“ Sherlock said, unfastening his zip.

Jim leaned forward enough to press his face against Sherlock, beginning to mouth him through his pants.

If he was aiming to piss Sherlock off, then it was clear what he needed. Jim only pushed quite that way when he wanted it hard and filthy and punishing. And Sherlock was only too happy to deliver. He freed his prick from the confines of his pants and without any further warning, he clamped Jim’s nose shut, making his mouth open to gasp for breath. He slammed his cock down Jim’s throat, who spluttered for a moment before sucking greedily.

“That’s it. You know you love it. Long for our little visits, don’t you, Jim?”

The only answer a throaty moan, muffled by cock.

His eyes were beautiful, wild with panic, as Sherlock reached down to tangle his fingers in the hair and the base of Jim’s neck, guiding the motion, fucking his face until he was a drooling, choking mess.

It made him even harder, watching Jim utterly debased, taken completely apart.

“Are you even trying?” he taunted, though it felt divine. The pain, the humiliation, all part of their games. Pulling him off, he slapped Jim across the face. Jim broke into a smile, laughing wildly as he swayed and nearly toppled, would have, actually, if Sherlock hadn’t grabbed the chain. 

“Aw, you can hit harder than that, love,” Moriarty teased back, before Sherlock delivered a backhanded blow to the other cheek, never letting go of the chain.

Rather than letting him fall, Sherlock lowered him gently to the floor, but was less careful as he raised Jim’s hips roughly, reaching down to unhook the strap that looped from the back of the straightjacket up between Jim’s legs. He lingered for a moment, his wrist brushing against Jim’s straining erection. Sherlock let him buck forward, seeking friction, rubbing himself on Sherlock’s wrist until he moaned. “Please, Sherlock.”

“You need it, don’t you?” Sherlock asked as he drew the cheap, stained drawstring trousers down over Jim’s hips. No pants to bother with.

“Yes, Sherlock. Please. I need…”

“I know what you need,” Sherlock whispered, his voice silken as he reached down to rock the anal plug that kept Jim ready for him. “I do so love our little visits”

Jim’s whimpers sounded far more like desperation than fear. Sherlock slid the toy minutely out and back in again, relishing the way Jim shivered and tried to rock back against the touch, but he was at the end of his tether. He repeated the motion, wondering how long it would take to get him begging for it. Not long today, he imagined, but Sherlock wanted, too.

“Enough teasing, then,” he said, pulling the toy free and lining himself up. Jim cried out as Sherlock entered him. Jim was pushed slowly across the filthy floor with the force of Sherlock’s thrusts. Grabbing the chain, Sherlock pulled him back. “Oh, you aren’t going anywhere,” he said. “Not until I’m through with you.”

He rode Jim hard, fucking him into the floor, enjoying the feel of him gasping, panting and writhing beneath him, tightening down deliciously on Sherlock’s prick with every jerk of the chain. When Sherlock came, the pleasure was white hot, drowning all other sensation. He picked up the plug, slipping it in place once again before more than a few drops of his seed could spill out onto the floor.

Sherlock couldn’t remember getting in from the cab, but he woke alone in his bed, hard and pulsing with need.   
\---

A shower, strong coffee and a few cigarettes later, Sherlock felt alright again. Alive at any rate. In the quiet of his flat, he plugged in the pen drive. He had to turn his mind to investigating, to go over the information again, to really dig in and make any sort of sense of everything. 

And, of course, to decide what to tell John. 

_Who are you, Mary?_

He still couldn’t quite grasp all that she had done. Certainly she hadn’t lied to him when she came to beg. She told him exactly as much as he would have in her place. She was trapped by the circumstances and what Jim knew. Of course. But...the pool? John wouldn’t like that. Sherlock sensed that was a step farther than he could forgive. Gave a whole new meaning to those tedious questions of how they met. Quite a story, this one. A bit more exciting than meeting at the clinic.

Sherlock was sick to death of lying. But an omission? Ignorance was not inherently bliss, but so few people remembered the whole of it. _Where_ ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to be wise. So, John could let Sherlock be knowledgeable and Sherlock could allow John his bliss. _Will this ever really be that simple?_

It was hard to fault her, seeing it all before him. The drive proved everything she had told him was accurate. Her motives were clear. She did what she had to to survive, to get out, to evade capture. She started a new life with people she thought she could trust. 

And Sherlock knew well that Moriarty could be quite charming when he wanted to be.   
\---

“Fuck yourself for me.”

Sherlock blinked at him.

“You heard me just fine, Sherlock, but I’ll be clearer. I am not touching you today, but I am going to watch you get off.”

Sherlock caught the small bottle Moriarty tossed toward him.

Fucking was pure. So much easier to be pressed down into the mattress.Or couch. Or floor. The complete loss of control a kind of gift. Merely an object to be acted upon.

No such luxury today.

It was strange, being watched, doing things to himself that no one else had ever witnessed, his few lovers far too interested in touching, their games more about the entwining of sensations than power, pleasure and pain commingling. Being watched was unnerving and making things... difficult.

Moriarty leaned in, still not touching, but close enough that his breath ghosted over the shell of Sherlock’s ear, his whispering positively obscene. The filthiest things he wanted to do. Urging Sherlock to finger himself, remembering all the ways they had coupled. Everywhere he had already had him.

Two fingers buried in his own arse, rutting into his own fist, Sherlock’s body sought out the release he didn’t even desire. 

_Oh yes, rock hard, I don’t want this. Clearly._ His thoughts sarcastic and bitter. _Just do as he says. Everything would go to Hell if I didn’t. Wouldn’t it?_

_Does it matter? You aren’t going to stop._

_don’tthinkdon’tthinkdon’tthink_

His thoughts chased one another in a useless loop until they devolved into noise and at last, were obliterated in a white hot jolt of pleasure, so intense it was nearly painful. On then did Moriarty touch him, holding him close, petting his hair through the shuddering reverberations, the aftershocks of orgasm. 

When Sherlock came back to himself enough to tune into the soft words Moriarty murmuring, “Such a good boy for me, aren’t you? A perfect little pet.” 

Sherlock took a deep breath, feeling shaky and sick.  
\---

Mary’s friendship with Janine had always been peculiar. They enjoyed one another’s company, had a similar sense of humour and certainly shared an unusual connection. Really, how many people met through their blackmailer? Still, it wasn’t the kind of closeness where you knew all each others secrets. Neither of them was that sort of woman. Too closed off, to guarded after whatever they had been through. And they were well beyond the sort of confess-all nights of eating ice cream and braiding each other’s hair. Still, Mary could tell something was off. 

It had started at the wedding. That strange call. Then she hadn’t heard from Janine for nearly a month. And then, dating Sherlock? Sure he was handsome, but, it was simply obvious he didn’t fancy Janine. He couldn’t. And she was more perceptive than that, so something truly didn’t add up. It was all simply too surreal. 

Then Mary saw the papers. As much as the revenge was amusing, Janine had very clearly sold her story to Magnussens’ rivals. How was this even the same woman? She had been even more trapped than Mary, had let Magnussen flick her in the eye! Mary shuddered at the thought. 

How did you go from being so under his thumb that you worked for nearly nothing, allowed his cruelty and abuse, to being so defiant? Secrets didn’t just evaporate, though they sometimes outlived any blackmail potential. Perhaps that was all it was. But if Janine got free, just maybe she had something on Magnussen. Blackmailing the blackmailer was a dangerous game. But if she was, could she help Mary get out of this, too?  
\---

Sherlock watched her for a moment, nervously pacing, rubbing her hands now and then to stave off the Autumn chill, somehow even colder in this warehouse than outside. 

His voice was low, but echoed in the quiet of the building, “Have you sent your text, today, Mary?”

She looked up, startled. For one moment it looked like she was going to plead ignorance, act as though she hadn’t any notion what Sherlock was on about, but she didn’t. _Good girl. Come on now. Stop lying to me_

 _And certainly, I am the absolute authority on when it is morally acceptable to dissimilate._ He choked back a bitter laugh.

“Yes. But how did you...?” she stopped, unable to formulate the question.

He ignored her query, pressing the advantage her surprise afforded. “And what would you do if the answer changed, Mary? What are your orders?”

She looked down and swallowed. She clearly hated to contemplate it, but she had and she was able to meet his eyes before answering. “Those are not the same question, Sherlock. Not even remotely.”

He waited for her to continue.

“I worked for him when I came back. That’s it, that is what I left out. I worked for Moriarty, as clearly you’ve discovered. I thought it wasn’t any different, taking out those that other means couldn’t reach. It was dangerous and bloody, but I was good at it. And I meant what I said, some people need to be killed. You understand that, Sherlock, even if you don’t want to.” 

He nodded minutely and she went on, leaning against a stack of boxes. He hadn’t really considered her condition. She probably shouldn’t be on her feet so long on this concrete floor, but wasn’t complaining.

She was easy to read as she spoke, whatever mask she wore had slipped. So Sherlock could tell in her body language, her expression, not just in her words as she continued that she clearly never had any intention of killing John. That was absolutely what they expected of her. Even if it meant escaping again, even if it meant going on the run, she’d do it. She would not let John be harmed. She really hadn’t thought her past would catch up to her, and if it did she wanted him safe from it. Then James contacted her again and it had all spiralled out of control. 

“I have to get back to the clinic. Lunch hour is almost over. Are you going to tell John?” 

By the end of their conversation, Sherlock was satisfied that she could be trusted. Well, trusted enough. 

“Do you think that will be necessary, Mrs. Watson?”

She smiled at him and managed to hold back her tears, but it was a near thing.  
\---

Sherlock missed the quiet times, just hearing John’s breathing and the painfully slow clack of keys as he typed up a case. But John was with him now and again for cases. Not running through London together nearly every day, but not all cases required that, even before. And there was occasionally the tea John fixed in the afternoon that Sherlock would never admit he longed for desperately in his time away. 

While nothing was the same as living together, it was getting near enough to be satisfying. The awkward moments gave way more and more often to ease, even in the silences. Every bit of work they did, easing them closer until Sherlock no longer let himself worry that it would never be right. It would. As impatient as he was, he had to accept that these things took time.

And for all that he worried over it, Sherlock only had to call off a meetup with John once to answer Moriarty’s call. Sherlock made a plausible excuse and John had taken the cancellation in stride. As easy as that. He couldn’t shake his own unease with hiding so much from John. He had sworn he was never going through with any plan again that John couldn’t know. 

But until he could work out how to keep him safe, it would have to do. 

\---

“Bored now.” Moriarty’s voice had a singsong quality that never ceased to disturb. “You used to be such a challenge, but there is no fight in you. It isn’t even fun to hurt you anymore.” He half-heartedly scratched his nails down Sherlock’s arm, sighing dramatically.

“You’re free from our arrangement. You’ve shown your hand perfectly well. There is nothing you wouldn’t do for them. I’m sure that information will prove invaluable.”

“So I am no longer at your beck and call?”

Moriarty laughed. "Free as a bird, love."

"And John?"

"Safe as he'll ever be with that wife of his."

“And if I tell them?”

“Lies on top of lies, from the only ones he has ever trusted. Will you really do that to John?”

It wasn’t really an answer. Sherlock looked down, torn between shame and outright hysterics. He shouldn’t let this man get to him and suddenly he could feel mad laughter bubbling up in him. He took a deep breath and fought to keep control. _But really? This man was going to school him in what constituted betrayal?_

“You’ll see me again soon, Sherlock, but not like this. No, we’re done with this. I’ll give your love to Charlie.“

Moriarty’s kiss goodbye was hard and deep, but when it was done, he swept from the room without a backward glance, leaving Sherlock in a dishevelled mess in the sheets.

Once he was gone, Sherlock stared numbly, unable even to cry.

The work had continued apace, staving off the boredom, the tedium that seeped in between their meetings. It, too, kept his mind occupied in something productive, rather than cycling again and again through the motions of how to free them from this trap. He had begun to feel like he only existed in the Work and the sometimes dreamlike encounters with Moriarty. In the time before, he had his black moods, times when darkness seemed to sweep over him, or when his mind would run in endless circles, well-worn paths that seemed inescapable despite not bearing pursuing. When he began to drift, John was there, helping him to ground him, not letting him detach. 

_But John wasn’t here, now._

He should feel relief. It was over.  
.  
But how would it ever be over? He was still out there and who could know what he was planning. All Sherlock felt was hollow. Like every moment with Moriarty had scooped out some part of him until hardly anything remained. 

_Of course he didn’t want me any longer. Hardly more than a shell._

He lay there, going over and over it in his mind. The pieces he deduced, everything falling into place just too late.

_I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you._

Beaten. Broken. Like James saw his brother. 

_“Jim talked about you constantly at the end. He was obsessed, just couldn’t let you go. He even left notes. Plenty of them, in fact. Made it easy to see how he’d trap you, how he’d have you.”_

_“After his death I first thought I would have you killed, but the more I thought about it, the more I knew I needed to meet you and the more I thought about meeting you, the more I wanted to break you. Like you broke him. And once I met you, I understood. I could have fallen for you, Sherlock. He was right about one thing, my dear brother. You aren’t ordinary. You shine like he did. “_

_"I wondered if you noticed, the times we were in his flat. It seemed right to be there, on his bed. He always wanted you, you know."_

_Enough. This wasn’t helping._ He still had a case. It was time to pay Wiggins another visit.  
\---

Sherlock hadn’t expected to hear from Magnussen yet, but he wasn’t one to follow expectations. Their reservations had been for eight, but when Magnussen hadn’t arrived by half past, Sherlock and John simply ordered. They were half way through their entree when Magnussen took his seat. 

He sat across the table from Sherlock, cigar in hand, lighting it from the table candle. Their waiter scurried towards the table to remind him that this was a no smoking establishment. Sherlock didn’t miss the maitre d’ intercepting the unfortunate waiter before he reached the table. 

Now and again as they spoke, Magnussen casually tapped ash onto John’s plate, a light sprinkling of black now dusting the salmon as though it were pepper. Sherlock was glad that they had eaten a good deal of their meal before he deigned to grace them with his presence.

“You’ve been busy, Mr. Holmes. Possibly too busy to worry much about my Christmas present just yet. But I hear your schedule should be getting lighter.” He nodded toward John,”Does he know the lengths you’ve gone to? Too bad we don’t have any video of that. I wonder if he’d like to watch?” His tone was calm, but mocking. It was clear he would gladly show it if he had it, so at least that was some small relief. But he _had_ to shut up. 

_John can’t know. John must never know._

“What is he talking about, Sherlock?”

“Not now, John.”

“Sherlock?”

“Not now!” he said more forcefully, the tone of finality clear and unassuageable.

Turning back to Magnussen, Sherlock said, “Shall I expect an engraved invitation, then?” 

“I’ll be in touch.”  
\---

By this evening everything should be sorted. Magnussen dealt with, the Watsons back together. As long as everything went according to plan, it should be the best Christmas ever. Sherlock had never had any inclination toward playing Father Christmas, but he was sure his presents would be well received all around. Well, being drugged might put a damper on it for some of them, but that was perfectly necessary. And Wiggins would keep them safe. 

_It would good for them to reconcile. Baby on the way and all, and fairly soon at that._

They had worked together for days on what John would say. Mary should be hearing John’s little speech right now. It seemed like what she needed to hear. And technically, John _hadn’t_ read the file. The fact that Sherlock had read them for him was rather irrelevant. Besides, it conveniently meant that John never had to know about the pool and Mary was unlikely to spill that, knowing that he had chosen not to read it.

Just a few more minutes left until the punch kicked in. 

Sherlock hoped that the reunion with Mary wouldn’t change the rhythm he and John had regained. While John hadn’t moved back to Baker Street, he now spent enough time there that it was beginning to feel like home again.

There were tears, but … happy ones. She made totally different sounds when she was upset. Sounded like she was accepting. _Right. Good. As it should be._ All according to plan so far.

And, there they went, right on schedule. Everyone breathing, no one injured. _Oh, John’s distressed. Of course he’s distressed. Perhaps I should have clued John in on that part of it. No, he would never have trusted that it was ok to drug Mary in her current state. But that was just sentiment. The chemistry of it was fine._ Sherlock had checked and rechecked, even knowing what an expert Wiggins was. They would all be fine.  
\---

“So, we’re just waltzing into Magnussen’s house? And what?”

“No. We’re guests. We were invited. Clearly.” Sherlock gestured around them. “Sent a helicopter and everything.” 

“But, Sherlock…” 

Sherlock cut him off, “John, I need to think.”

With a sigh, both resigned and exasperated, John quieted, looking out the window and absentmindedly checking for his gun.

Sherlock went over and over the plan in his head. Various scenarios playing out. Human nature was inherently unpredictable, but by the time they arrived, Sherlock felt fairly confident. This would work. This _had_ to work.  
\---

John’s face as Magnussen taunted was something to behold. He truly hadn’t known the bonfire was related. 

Sherlock had suspected it rather strongly and here was proof, but John, he hadn’t known. Seeing his face as he took it in was awful, the clear war between, _This is all your fault, Sherlock. As some sort of leverage, I was thrown in a bloody fire!_ and a softer look, almost wonder as he really looked at Sherlock.   
_I look absolutely as terrified as I felt._ John couldn’t miss it, couldn’t dismiss it. 

_Did he really not know how I felt? Hadn’t I made it plain?_

_Oh, I am so sorry, John._

It hit Sherlock with sudden force that Magnussen wasn’t scared, not remotely. He didn’t appear to be backed into any corner. He, in fact, looked like everything he wanted was about to be his. 

_What did I miss?_

“It is password protected,” Sherlock said as though that secured everything. _He has to give us Mary’s information. Just as long as he does before they get here…_ ”In return for the password, you will give me any material in your possession pertaining to the woman I know as Mary Watson.”

…

From the moment Magnussen opened the cabinet, everything had just stopped. Sherlock couldn’t form words, couldn’t even formulate the thoughts that would sort themselves into words. 

When his thoughts did start up again, with all the speed and agility of an antiquated machine which had been left out to rust. Worse than the dreadfully slow pace of his thoughts, everything was disjointed, out of sorts, as though a basket of whole thoughts had been shaken until they jumbled together.

_No vaults... Mary... no files... no proof... he prints it and mints truth... controls_

_So like Mycroft, but with no moral compass at all._

Magnussen had left the room. _Where had he gone? We should follow. Should we follow?_

_John was saying someth… what was that? The plan... asking about the plan._

“Sherlock, do we have a plan?”

Achingly slowly, he tried to find a plan, something, but at first only one thought echoed in his head with any clarity. _What have I done?_

_Plan... don’t feel... some way... utter failure... how can…?_

Sherlock never cared what other people thought, least of all the portion of the populace he didn’t even know. So he had no reason to care what they printed. Far easier to ignore until he needed a distracting pressure point. So, he should have realised Magnussen didn’t need proof. If he had the right intel, no one could sue. And if it was even close to true? Careers could be ended. Marriages, too. Lives even, as Lady Smallwood could now unfortunately attest. 

And now, of course, Magnussen would use exactly what he had handed him. The headlines wrote themselves.

The Mad Hatter: Consulting Detective Threatens National Security.

Junkie Brother Tries to Sell State Secrets 

Drugs, Lies, and the Fate of a Nation

This wasn’t helping. Shaking himself out of his shock, Sherlock walked towards the balcony. Magnussen owns us. This can’t stand. It can’t be.

Sherlock felt a wave of helplessness sweep over him. Watching Magnussen flick John, no better than a schoolyard bully, torturing and abusing people simply because he could. And with every flick, Sherlock’s hopelessness turned to rage. Magnussen _couldn’t_ do this to John. Brave, loyal John who had suffered so much. John who only sought a calm, normal life, as much as it eluded him. 

Just one thing to verify. If only he’d had done this before the helicopter arrived. But it couldn’t be helped. Sherlock was resolved to do whatever had to be done.

“To clarify: Appledore’s vaults only exist in your mind, nowhere else, just there.”

Magnussen’s confirmation sealed it. His insistence that he wasn’t a villain, his absolute surety that Sherlock and John were harmless, owned, not even the remotest threat, only fueled Sherlock’s determination. This would end here.

Sherlock did not hesitate any longer. He drew John’s gun, took aim, and fired.


	12. Chapter 12

Perhaps he would make it out of this. Mycroft was seldom wrong, but a lot could happen in six months. Just think of all that he had mended with John in the last half a year. Of course that made leaving all the harder. 

Sherlock requested a moment alone with John. He thought he would tell John what he meant, that he would say goodbye and it was just too much with Mycroft and Mary beside him, but then, like an unexpected deduction, it was clear to him. They already had their goodbye and they had their heartfelt moments. They would kill, they would _die_ for each other. What could they say that was any clearer than that? The letter, carefully left for John to find, explained anything else.

So here and now what he needed, needed so much that his chest hurt, was to see John laugh one more time. They had their fill of pain and angst and sacrifice hadn’t they? And Sherlock suddenly knew that he absolutely could not go if without this. If he hugged John, he would never be able to let go. No. He simply needed to take in every crinkle in John’s face, every detail and know that he was the one who put them there, one last time.

Then he could go, he could leave them, knowing he had fulfilled his vow and secured John’s happiness. This life he had carved out for himself. Sherlock hoped that John would understand in time, and that he could forgive him if he didn’t make it back. Only one more thing to do.

"William Scott Sherlock Holmes."

"Sorry?"

"That’s the whole of it. If you’re looking for baby names"

That smile. That laugh.

“Actually, We’ve had a scan. We’re pretty sure it’s a girl.” 

Sherlock acknowledged that. “Ah. Okay,” he had said, but it was more than okay. It was lovely, actually. He could see John twirling her in his arms, John fiercely protective and loving. John’s eyes and Mary’s hair. She would be perfect. 

_And I will never see her._

There was a bit of an awkward moment. “Actually, I can’t think of a thing to say” Well, there wasn’t anything left they hadn’t said. Nothing that would help now. 

He did his best to both answer and evade John’s questions. Couldn’t promise to come back when he knew there was little chance of that, but couldn’t burden John with the idea that he was headed to near certain death, either. At last there was a moment, a pause, a space that stretched between them.

“John, there’s something ... I should say; I-I’ve _meant_ to say always and then never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.” Almost. _Just there, I could almost…_ He’ll hear it in the uncertain pause. He knows. We just need to laugh. One more moment… just us again for a heartbeat.

“Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”

“It’s not” 

No, it isn’t, but that was hardly the point, was it. Who was going to name a girl Sherlock? But it was the closest he could come to saying, _please don’t forget me, don’t forget this. No matter what, let me be a small part of this life you have carved out for yourself, that you will never know, must never know, what I have done to protect._

“It was worth a try.” _Please, John, keep some part of this._

“We’re not naming our daughter after you.” Of course you aren’t. 

“I think it could work.” That laugh again. 

And their whole exchange screamed ‘I love you.’ Surely John knew it. And it felt so loud in Sherlock’s head that, it seemed that even casual observers would hear it.

With his glove off, he could feel John’s warm hand in his. John hesitated. There was pain in his eyes. Too distant, too formal. _But we don’t like emotional displays and any more than this would break me. Please John, understand, if you were in my arms, I could not let go._

“To the very best of times, John” What more could he say?

He took in a sharp breath to stave off tears. He had one tear-filled goodbye with John and saw where that left him. He wouldn’t do it again. 

_Now all I have to do is make it onto the plane._ Turn and go. Nice knowing you. _I can do this. I can._ He willed one foot in front of the other, scarcely daring to hope that he’d manage to find a way back.  
\---

Sherlock stared out the window, tiny roads and trees slipping past below. Soon they would reach cruising altitude and everything would turn to mere blotches of color, a canvas rather than a country. There was sun now, but by the time they found their destination, the cities below would look like a handful of jewels tossed on black velvet, glittering. The thought was more flowery than his usual, but the image had come the last time he took a trip by air, coming back to London. He thought he was coming home. It had made him, then as now, long for a simple puzzle, a heist or burglary. Something that wouldn’t kill them all. A mystery that was challenging enough to stimulate his mind and simple enough to put them around the table at home with takeaway and… well, there was no use dwelling on home and hearth. 

_Home._ There was so much longing in that word. It didn’t draw on childhood memories or most places he had lived. No. Home was John and tea and their flat. Home was shared laughter and things that couldn’t be said, but never had to be. 

It was said that you could never go home again. You might find the building or the people, but nothing was ever the same again. He should have known. _Anyone else would have known._


	13. Epilogue: Did You Miss Me?

Mary stared at John like he had grown a second head. It couldn’t be. It was over. It was supposed to be over. Magnussen was dead. There were no actual files, nothing to track her that existed outside of Magnussen’s head. James had told her it was over, no need to check in. It was done. 

But Jim knew everything. Could he really be back? 

“But he’s dead. I mean, you told me he was dead, Moriarty?”

“Absolutely. Blew his own brains out.”

“So how can he be back?” She knew she was barely disguising her panic, but it couldn’t be helped. She tried to focus, but everything felt like a blur. The baby kicked, usually grounding her in the present, her new life, but somehow it just made her panic more. It was never going to be enough. She would never get far enough away from this, would she?  
\---

Sherlock figured he wouldn’t be disturbed this soon on his way to this death sentence. He had made it through the goodbye with John. No one to see him now, there was no sense in holding back. There would be time to figure out a plan, time to see if there was anyway out when he got a feel for the mission, for the contacts. For now, he gave in to the hopelessness of Mycroft’s prediction. To the idea that he would never see John again. All the months of running around, all the avoidance… still worth it if it kept John alive. 

He heard the rustling fabric of the attendant’s uniform, the hurried steps, and Sherlock dried his tears. His eyes would still be red, but what of it?

“Sir, It’s your brother”

What could Mycroft possibly want of him now. He had told him about Mary and to keep an eye out, but he generally believed her. And what could possibly have happened so fast?

Sherlock took the phone, even managed a tone of exasperation with Mycroft. After he hung up, torn between relief and terror, Sherlock sat tight as the plane turned around. Not going to a near death sentence in far flung lands was lovely, but what now?

What is James playing at? It had to be James. James who had fooled him for months could clearly pull one over on the populace for a few moments, but why?

 _And how will I unravel this without John finding out everything?_

Sherlock wasn’t sure, but he would think of something. He would have to.  
His heart twisted between hope and despair. Sherlock steeled himself. He could not do this all over again. If he survived whatever had befallen London, nothing would force his hand. If he was coming back now, then one way or another, Sherlock _would_ find his way home. 

And if he managed it this time, nothing could make Sherlock leave again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with me as I reworked series 3. Hopefully I have done it some justice, in my own weird way. I would at some point love to write a companion that sorts through and resolves everything. For now, it was enough to get us as far as series 3 took us. I hope you enjoyed the journey and I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments!


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